Fallout Page 4

  He called in sick and drove through the night to Auckland with a Walther PPK/E semi-automatic, which he’d surreptitiously pocketed during a raid on a P lab, taped to the underside of the driver’s seat. By then he had persuaded himself that it was his duty to eliminate Yallop. Yallop was a sociopath with no respect for anyone or anything, not even the notion of honour among thieves; a hands-off operator who got others to do his dirty work then taunted the cops when they couldn’t pin anything on him. ‘Catch me if you can,’ he boasted, but as soon as Ihaka put some heat on, Yallop’s first instinct was to have him killed. Even if Ihaka hadn’t been a mate, Van Roon couldn’t look the other way while a fellow cop took a bullet. Besides, all professional criminals understood that killing a cop was a declaration of war. Sure, this was a pre-emptive strike but the first rule of war is that there are no rules.

  Killing Yallop was surprisingly easy. When the time came there were no second thoughts or shaking hands. He steeled himself to do it, he did it, then drove south on the back roads untroubled by his conscience. That came later. North of Taupo he nosed the car down a grass track into a state forest and slept on the back seat for a few hours. At four in the morning he slipped into Hatepe, a village on the southern side of the lake. A friend of a friend had a holiday home there which Van Roon had rented the previous year. He knew where the keys were. He got a kayak out of the lock-up, carried it down to the lake, paddled out to deep water and dropped the pistol over the side.

  Ihaka figured it out as, deep down, Van Roon had known he would. From what he heard later, the Commissioner had favoured a low-key resignation with the whole thing swept under the carpet. McGrail persuaded him that the most damaging outcome would be if it leaked later that they’d had good reason to believe one of their senior men had gone rogue but had opted not to pursue it. So they came after him in a roundabout, unofficial way because, while there was an institutional desire to nail him, there was an even stronger institutional desire to keep a tight lid on it.

  They came at night and politely but methodically searched his house. They spun an unlikely yarn about a drug dealer stashing dope in the area and went up and down his street looking in basements and garden sheds. They searched in Otari-Wilton’s bush and on Tinakori Hill where he also walked the dog. All they came up with was that he’d recently stopped renting safety deposit boxes through a shelf company.

  They checked CCTV footage from service stations up and down the North Island for the twelve hours either side of Yallop’s murder, to no avail because he’d had extra fuel in jerry-cans to get to Auckland and back without stopping at a pump. By then he’d dumped the car and the false number plates he’d used were under several tonnes of landfill.

  He spent days on end being browbeaten by Ron Firkitt, a Detective Sergeant out of Auckland Central with a well-deserved reputation as a harsh and relentless interrogator. But Firkitt had never come up against anyone as well prepared as Van Roon: he anticipated every angle of attack, saw every question coming. And of course he knew the tricks of the trade.

  It was stalemate: they didn’t have a case, he didn’t have a future. He could have hired a hard-nosed employment lawyer and gone after a big pay-out, but McGrail warned him off. If it came to that, said the Ulsterman, the reasons for his departure from the force would become public knowledge, one way or another. Did he want his kids to have to deal with that?

  So he went quietly, which his wife Yvonne interpreted as an admission of guilt. The investigation had put an intolerable strain on a relationship which was already in decline. Time was she would have begged him to stay home rather than disappear on another mysterious nocturnal mission. Lately though, she’d just tell him to come in quietly and use the downstairs toilet, not even bothering to pause whatever she was watching on TV.

  He moved out of the family home, which was sold with all proceeds going to Yvonne to offset his much reduced contribution. (He’d set himself up as a private investigator and security consultant, but the phone wasn’t ringing off the hook.) She took his pliancy to mean he had stolen cash hidden away. But she didn’t object when he left a wad of notes on the kitchen table after dropping off the kids. She didn’t say thank you either.

  Last time they spoke Yvonne had mentioned — ‘Oh, by the way’ — that she was seriously thinking of moving back to Auckland. He questioned whether it was a good time for the kids to be changing schools; she said she’d discussed it with them and they were all for it. He couldn’t really object, she said, because there was nothing to stop him doing likewise. It wasn’t as if there was anything much keeping him in Wellington. Like a proper job.

  Walking the dog in Otari-Wilton’s bush was as close as Van Roon got to being at peace. He stuck to the steep tracks, which didn’t get much traffic in summer let alone at this time of year when the mud sucked at your tramping boots and if you didn’t tread carefully you could find yourself tobogganing down a stony hillside on your arse. It was just him and the dog and bush sounds: branches creaking in the wind, tui babbling to each other through the mist, the clumsy take-off of a startled kereru.

  His mobile rang.

  ‘Van Roon.’

  ‘Mr Van Roon, this is Caspar Quedley. Does that name mean anything?’

  Christ, talk about a blast from the past. He hadn’t heard that name for the best part of twenty years. Quedley was an Auckland PR man who’d been involved in one of Ihaka’s cases. He had a reputation for being well-connected and charming, but like a lot of Auckland charm his was skin-deep and what lay beneath was as attractive as gangrene. While Quedley had managed to stay out of jail, he was portrayed in such an odious light in a magazine article about the case that his clients took flight. He’d shut up shop and gone to ground. Van Roon hadn’t heard of him since.

  Van Roon said, ‘There can’t be too many Caspar Quedleys out there.’

  ‘I’ve never come across another one. Look, I know this is short notice, but are you free for lunch?’

  ‘Short notice is a relative concept. What’s it in aid of?’

  ‘I’ve got a project you might be interested in,’ said Quedley. ‘All above board.’

  ‘What are you up to these days?’

  ‘Same sort of thing, only more discreet and more ethical.’

  ‘Really?’ McGrail had been true to his word in terms of hushing up the reasons for Van Roon’s abrupt resignation, but if Quedley was half the operator he used to be he would have heard the rumours. ‘So why are you talking to me?’

  ‘We can cover all that at lunch.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve done your homework, you’ll know I’m not in a position to be choosy. In fact, you don’t need to buy me lunch: a cup of coffee would do it.’

  ‘Oh, I think we can stretch to a bowl of pasta and a glass of Eytie plonk. You know Bella Italia in Petone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One o’clock. Now I’ve got to go, they’re about to close my flight.’

  Although Van Roon had never met Quedley, he remembered him from photos as a handsome rascal. Quedley still stood out in a crowded restaurant, even one the size of an aircraft hangar. For a start he was the only person there wearing a tie. The rest of his outfit consisted of a navy-blue suit, dark cashmere overcoat and white silk scarf. His hair had turned silver-grey and was swept back off his forehead accentuating the receding hairline. He didn’t look like a local; he looked like a distinguished visitor from the old country who’d heard this was the only place in Wellington where he could get meatballs the way mama used to make them.

  They shook hands. Quedley handed his overcoat and scarf to a nonplussed waiter and ordered antipasto and a couple of Peronis, ‘unless my guest isn’t drinking, in which case one will suffice’.

  Van Roon shrugged. ‘I cancelled my appointments.’

  Quedley smiled to show he got Van Roon’s little joke. ‘I’m guessing you’re too young to know who Eddie Brightside is. Or was.’


  ‘Is this small talk, or have we skipped that?’

  ‘I’m a reformed character, Mr Van Roon. I don’t bother with the bullshit these days.’

  ‘Suits me. OK, no, never heard of him.’

  ‘Back in the mid-eighties Eddie Brightside — inevitably known as Fast Eddie, although in his case it was appropriate — was quite an identity in this town. I suppose “likeable rogue” would be one way to describe him. He had a knack of attaching himself to high-powered people and persuading them they couldn’t do without him. If you’re thinking here’s the pot calling the kettle black, then touché because there’d be a few people who’d say much the same about me. Anyway, having invested a lot of time and effort in getting to run with the big dogs, he up and disappeared — hasn’t been seen or heard from since. Until yesterday: someone who knew Brightside reasonably well back in the day swears he saw him at a Hawke’s Bay vineyard. Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, would be to check it out and, if it stacks up, find the prick.’

  The beers and antipasto arrived. Quedley suggested they share a whole baked fish. Van Roon nodded; he’d never been that interested in food, and now that money was tight and he was fending for himself, most nights he ate out of a can.

  ‘When did he disappear?’

  ‘August 1987.’

  ‘I assume it was a missing persons case?’

  ‘That’s where it gets a bit murky.’ Quedley took an A4 envelope out of his leather satchel. ‘The life and times of Eddie Brightside. You’ll be pleased to know it’s not the usual PR company backgrounder, a half-hour Google job by a trainee with an attention span as short as her skirt. There are still a few gaps and some rumour and speculation, but that was our Eddie — he cultivated the image of an international man of mystery. The business arrangement is five K up front, a further two and a half on completion, all reasonable expenses paid on presentation of receipts. And if you do a good job and the client wakes up without a hangover, there might be a bonus. All conditional on you getting onto it pronto and staying on it full-time for three weeks, or until you find Brightside, or establish that he’s left the country.’

  ‘Why are you so keen to find him?’

  ‘Let’s get one thing clear: I couldn’t give a fuck. I met Brightside a few times; he struck me as an obvious con-man, so I wasn’t surprised when he did a runner. Someone saw through him or someone from his dodgy past turned up, so he skedaddled. That’s what con-artists do — they travel light and always know where the nearest exit is. The client is someone Brightside persuaded to invest in an Australian entrepreneurial stock that went south like a lead shit. He has a long memory when it comes to dud financial advice and can afford to hold a grudge.’

  ‘So if I find Brightside, what then?’

  Quedley grinned. ‘You won’t be required to sodomise him with a red-hot poker, if that’s what you’re worried about. Frankly, I don’t know what the client has in mind; I imagine it’ll depend on Brightside’s circumstances.’ He could tell Van Roon was sceptical. ‘Perhaps I didn’t adequately convey how loaded the client is. Put it this way: your fee’s peanuts. He’d think nothing of dropping that much on a hand of poker.’

  ‘Who’s the guy who thinks he saw Brightside?’

  ‘An old hack called Barry McCormick who was in the Press Gallery for donkey’s years. He’s retired now, lives up on the Kapiti coast. I haven’t seen him for a while, but when we talk on the phone he still seems to have his marbles.’

  ‘What about his eyesight?’ asked Van Roon.

  ‘I don’t hear a guide dog farting in the background.’

  ‘An old journo spots someone who disappeared, I assume reasonably sensationally, back in ’87: why didn’t he go to the media?’

  ‘Because, unlike me, the media wouldn’t pay him,’ said Quedley. ‘I’m an information trader, among other things; I’ve got a few old lags around the place keeping their eyes and ears open on my behalf. I buy a lot of ho-hum stuff to keep them motivated, and every once in a while it pays off.’

  ‘So this guy who’s been underground all these years surfaces at a vineyard? Does that seem likely to you?’

  ‘As you say, it’s been a fair old while. He could be excused for thinking that if he hasn’t been spotted by now, he never will be. What happened was, Baz was trawling round the vineyards sampling free wine — ex-journo for you; old habits die hard. At this particular place there was a couple up at the counter buying a case. Baz couldn’t believe his eyes: he’s a hundred per cent certain it was Brightside. He went over and, knowing Baz, would’ve said something like “Eddie fucking Brightside, as I live and breathe”. Brightside — or his doppelganger — hustled the woman out to the car park where they jumped into a Honda Civic and took off like the hounds of hell were on their tail. Baz thinks he got the number.’ Quedley patted the envelope. ‘It’s in here, along with his contact details.’

  ‘Last question,’ said Van Roon. ‘Why me?’

  Quedley nodded, as if he’d been expecting it. ‘First off, you come recommended — by Ihaka.’

  Van Roon’s eyes lit up. ‘You talked to Ihaka?’

  ‘That’s how I got your number.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said you were good. I’m afraid that’s all he said.’ There was a flicker of sympathy in Quedley’s eyes. Van Roon shrugged and took an interest in the antipasto. ‘Secondly, the client values his privacy. What that means is he has an intense aversion to anyone outside the inner circle knowing what he’s up to. You’re a one-man band, which is good for security, and by all accounts you can keep a secret. Third, again by all accounts, you did a bloody good job of covering your own tracks, so this should be right up your alley. The old poacher turned gamekeeper principle.’

  ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘About your situation? Let’s say the broad outline. You see, the main reason for coming to you is that I also had a spectacular fall from grace. I woke up one morning to find I’d metamorphosed into persona non grata. My clients couldn’t dump me fast enough; most of my so-called friends turned their backs on me; life in the material sense turned to shit. I know what it’s like: you’re in a hole, and you don’t have to be down there too long before you start to lose the will and the energy to haul yourself out of it. I got a lucky break which got me back on my feet. This isn’t charity — I wouldn’t be here if Ihaka hadn’t given you a tick — but I happen to believe that everyone’s entitled to a second chance.’

  ‘In that case, you’ve got yourself a bloodhound.’

  ‘Good,’ said Quedley as the waiter arrived with the fish. ‘Email me your bank account details and I’ll process the payment first thing tomorrow.’ When the waiter left, Quedley passed over the envelope. ‘Actually, I reckon this will be the easiest money you’ve ever made. My theory is that back in ’87 Brightside skipped the country on a false passport. If that was him at the vineyard, I bet he drove straight to Napier airport and fucked off back to wherever he’s been all these years.’

  Four

  Well, this should tell us something, thought Tito Ihaka as Detective Inspector Tony ‘Boy’ Charlton beckoned him into his office.

  They’d never got on, these two. Even when they were both Detective Sergeants, their dealings had been awkward and sometimes counter-productive because they were such different animals, professionally and personally. As a cop, Charlton was disciplined, politically savvy, risk-averse, never short of a buzzword, always up with the latest big idea that was going to change policing as we know it, and not above claiming credit to which he wasn’t entitled. As a person, Charlton was disciplined, fit, presentable, socially adept, a family man and six years younger than Ihaka.

  So they were never going to be soul-mates, but their relationship took a turn for the toxic when Charlton was appointed to fill the vacancy at Auckland Central created by Finbar McGrail’s promotion to Distric
t Commander. Not only had Ihaka been overlooked, but the usurper was now his boss, a galling state of affairs that Charlton seldom missed an opportunity to aggravate. Nothing if not perverse, Ihaka didn’t let the fact that Charlton was on his case, if not out to get him, cramp his style. In due course, Ihaka pushed his luck so far that not even McGrail could save him from being banished to the wilderness, aka Wairarapa.

  It took McGrail five years to find a way to get Ihaka back. Even then Charlton resisted until any further resistance would have amounted to laying down a challenge that McGrail couldn’t afford to ignore. Charlton still didn’t like it — never would in all probability — but he was an ambitious man and recognised there was no percentage in being seen to prolong a feud whose origins were increasingly obscure.

  McGrail had instructed them to find a way of interacting that didn’t generate acrimony, or at least kept it to a minimum. Avoiding public conflict was a good start: when they had an audience, Ihaka resisted the urge to be provocative and/or insolent, and Charlton refrained from being patronising or pulling rank for the sake of it.

  So far, so good, but neither was convinced the uneasy truce would hold. One of the very few things they agreed on was that once a shithead, always a shithead.

  Now Ihaka was going to ask Charlton for indefinite unpaid leave, with immediate effect and without telling him why: because he wanted to investigate the possibility that his father hadn’t died of natural causes. In the past Charlton would have knocked back a more reasonable request on principle — the principle being that if it came from Ihaka, it couldn’t be reasonable. Ihaka was about to find out if anything much had changed.

  Charlton’s expression was blandly polite. He tugged an earlobe. He shifted in his seat, leaning sideways and resting his chin on the heel of his hand. ‘When you say you’re not sure how long you’ll be out of commission . . .’