Fallout Page 7

  No, his uncertainty was around McGrail’s reaction. There was a view that McGrail had turned into a political animal since becoming Auckland District Commander. Even if that was true, he’d still got there the hard way: strictly on merit, without greasing up to the hierarchy or pretending to be Mr Nice Guy to score cheap points with the troops. And even if McGrail was open to the idea of interceding, Ihaka would still have to put up a compelling case; airy-fairiness like ‘family matters’ or ‘personal issues’ would cut even less ice than it did with Charlton. But what really worried Ihaka was that McGrail might come back at him with several reasons why looking into his old man’s death would be a waste of time.

  Things got off to an encouraging start. McGrail came out from behind his desk, bestowing a rare uncalibrated smile and an even rarer avuncular pat on the back. He examined Ihaka’s face. ‘I heard you were sporting a few bumps and bruises, Sergeant, but they seem to have cleared up. What happened?’

  ‘I slipped in the shower.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that too. I also heard DS Firkitt had a domestic misadventure around the same time. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were in any way related.’

  Even if there was such a thing as a good time to try to bullshit someone with an exceptional inbuilt lie detector, this wasn’t it. ‘Yeah,’ said Ihaka. ‘We cleared the air.’

  ‘What with — baseball bats?’

  ‘No, it was almost civilised. We boxed. You know: gloves, mouthguards, a good clean fight — no low blows, no rabbit punches.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘As I said, we cleared the air.’

  ‘No more bad blood then?’

  Ihaka nodded. ‘I think it’s sorted. Not saying it’s going to be all sweetness and light, but for now we’re cool.’

  ‘Now I’ve heard everything,’ said McGrail, shaking his head. ‘Still, I don’t suppose mediation was ever going to do the trick. What did DI Charlton make of it?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Ihaka. ‘I guess Firkitt told him, but he hasn’t mentioned it to me. We’ve got our own issues.’

  ‘He said ominously. That sounds like one step forward, two steps back.’

  ‘Other way round. The Charlton thing’s not a big deal, but I never thought me and Firkitt would be where we are.’

  ‘Peace in our time,’ said McGrail. ‘Well, let’s hope so anyway.’ He steered Ihaka towards the meeting table that took up half the office. It was bare except for a thick manila file. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d peruse that file, Sergeant. No rush; coffee and sandwiches are on the way.’

  Ihaka sat down, dragging the file towards him. A glance at the cover told him that it related to an unresolved 1987 murder investigation headed by a certain DI F. McGrail. A glance at McGrail told him it wasn’t just another cold case.

  ‘Still rankles, eh?’

  McGrail’s expression went from bleak to quizzical. ‘Good word, Sergeant; possibly not one I would have expected to hear from you.’

  ‘I joined a book club,’ said Ihaka. ‘It’s done wonders for my vocab.’

  ‘Really? You’ve joined a book club? Your reinvention proceeds apace.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Ihaka, flipping open the file.

  McGrail sighed. ‘I‘m getting old; I wouldn’t have fallen for that a few years ago.’ He went back to his desk. ‘But yes, it still rankles.’

  The heavy emphasis caused Ihaka to look up, but McGrail was already bowed over a document, fountain pen poised correctively.

  Half an hour later Ihaka pushed the file aside. ‘Jesus, what a fucking nightmare.’

  McGrail joined him at the meeting table. ‘There’s been a development. Minor, one would have to say, but a development nonetheless.’

  He gave Ihaka an abridged version of what Andy Maddocks had revealed at the Northern Club. ‘So at least we now know why the poor girl was upstairs,’ said McGrail. ‘What do you make of it, Sergeant? What are those renowned instincts telling you?’

  ‘Shit, I don’t know. Maybe she heard something she shouldn’t have heard, or saw something she shouldn’t have seen.’

  ‘We considered that, of course, but didn’t really follow it through. I’ve reviewed the file very carefully since that conversation with Maddocks and came to the same conclusion as you did after a quick skim.’ When Ihaka didn’t respond, he added, ‘That’s a compliment, by the way.’

  ‘You know me,’ said Ihaka. ‘I just say the first thing that comes into my head.’

  ‘The first thing that comes into most people’s heads is idiotic but, as you’ve demonstrated many times, you’re not like most people. My second conclusion was that we approached it the wrong way. We were trying to find a killer, which was like looking for a needle in a haystack. We should have been trying to find out what it was that Polly saw or heard that got her killed.’

  Ihaka shrugged sceptically. ‘Much better. Like looking for a four-leaf clover in Cornwall Park.’

  ‘I disagree. We asked, “Did you see anything suspicious?” “Did you notice anyone acting in an unusual manner?” We might as well have asked, “Did you happen to see anyone who looked like a homicidal maniac?” ’ McGrail was hunched forward, prodding the tabletop with his index finger. Christ, thought Ihaka, he’ll be loosening his tie next. ‘Instead of starting with the murder and working back, we should have tried to find out what was going on that night, because whatever Polly saw or heard upstairs, there was probably an inkling of it downstairs.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The Barton boy had arranged a rendezvous upstairs with Mrs Best. It didn’t happen because his parents knew what was afoot and made it their business to stop it. Perhaps someone else had the same idea: upstairs was out of bounds, so it was the ideal place for an assignation. And bear in mind there were some prominent people at that party.’

  ‘Well, yeah, I can see it might be embarrassing for a big shot, especially a married one, to have some kid walk in when he’s up to the apricots where he shouldn’t be. I can see him putting the hard word on her, or trying to bribe her to keep her mouth shut. I can’t see him strangling her. I mean, you’re loaded, you’ve got friends in high places, a teenager catches you on the job, what are you going to do? You’re going to pull up your tweeds and walk out of there like nothing happened. Then it’s your word against hers, and who’s going to believe her?’

  ‘Well,’ said McGrail, ‘I suppose I was thinking of something potentially more damaging than bog-standard adultery.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Were there any little kids there that night?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Because if we’re talking about Mr Pillar of Society busted molesting a kiddie, I can see he might go a bit overboard. Or the family pet: “MP dorks host’s dachshund at posh party”. Not an ideal headline if you’re hoping for promotion in the next cabinet reshuffle.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man.’ McGrail flushed hotly, his voice rasping with indignation. ‘This is no laughing matter. For twenty-seven years barely a week has gone by that I haven’t thought about Polly Stenson. When I walk out of here, I’ll do so with very few regrets, but this case will stay with me until I’ve forgotten I ever was a policeman.’

  Ihaka held up his hands. ‘Sorry, I should have got the message the first time. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Offload whatever you’ve got on and give this case one last shake. Then at least I’ll have the comfort of knowing the answer wasn’t staring me in the face.’ Ihaka was counting on McGrail noticing his slight grimace. ‘You don’t seem too enthusiastic, Sergeant. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Not for me there isn’t. Charlton will be hacked off, though. See, he just knocked back my request for unpaid leave. He’s going to think I’ve gone over his head.’

  ‘I assume you presented a reasonable case.’

  ‘Personal matters.’

  ‘Ah. That covers
a multitude of sins.’

  ‘I know, but this is real and about as personal as it gets. And, well, shit, you know the background.’

  ‘You’re a closed book at the best of times, and Charlton’s the last person you’d be inclined to open up for. I would hope,’ McGrail added gently, ‘that I’m not the second to last.’

  Ihaka relayed his conversation with Miriam Lovell.

  ‘Have you established whether there was a post-mortem?’

  ‘Mum’s sure there wasn’t,’ said Ihaka. ‘He’d had heart trouble and there was a family history of it, so I guess it was just taken for granted he’d had a heart attack. You feel you owe Polly; I feel the same about this. The least I can do is check it out.’

  ‘Oh, I think this can work for both of us, Sergeant. Officially, you’ll be pursuing the new lead in the Stenson case, but I’m sure there’ll be lulls here and there.’

  ‘Suits me down to the ground but, as I said, it’s not me you have to worry about. Doesn’t matter how you sell it, Charlton’s going to spit the dummy.’

  ‘Well, Tito, I can’t say I give a damn what Charlton does.’

  ‘Did you just call me Tito?’

  ‘I believe I did.’

  Ihaka was faintly embarrassed at how chuffed he was. ‘First time ever.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said McGrail, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. ‘Seeing we’re breaking new ground, perhaps you could return the favour.’

  ‘You want me to call you Finbar?’

  ‘I was thinking more of Sir.’

  McGrail held Ihaka’s confused stare.

  ‘But I’ve hardly ever called you Sir.’

  ‘Well, precisely.’

  Ihaka floundered, lost for words.

  McGrail, frowning: ‘So it’s a matter of principle?’

  Ihaka groaned. ‘That makes it sound like a big deal, which it’s not. Not with you, anyway. It just doesn’t come naturally.’

  ‘And leg-pulls don’t come naturally to me,’ said McGrail, poker-faced. ‘But it was rather a good one, if I say so myself.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Ihaka put his elbows on the table and buried his face in the crook of an arm. In a muffled voice he said, ‘There’s a few things I wouldn’t mind calling you right now.’

  ‘But you won’t, will you?’

  Ihaka lifted his head, starting to see the funny side. ‘No sir, I won’t.’

  He rang Miriam Lovell for contact details. After she’d provided them, she said, ‘I assume that means you’re taking it further, which in turn tells me there was no post-mortem.’

  ‘Two out of two.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Ask questions,’ said Ihaka. ‘Try to get a feel for whether there’s anything to it. Follow my nose. I do this sort of thing for a living, remember?’

  ‘Plant evidence, beat confessions out of innocent people . . .’

  ‘Every job has its perks,’ he said. ‘What about you? What are you up to?’

  ‘That’s a rather personal question.’

  ‘I just have this feeling you’re holding out on me.’

  Miriam laughed. ‘So the boot’s on the other foot?’

  Then she hung up.

  Since he was off the roster and determined not to be late for a kiss-and-make-up date with Denise, Ihaka left work early. He was walking out of Auckland Central as Charlton was walking in. Charlton circled, unsmiling, hands shoved in his pockets. ‘You ever heard the expression “Be careful what you wish for”?’

  ‘All the time,’ said Ihaka. ‘And I’ve noticed when people say it, they get this strange look on their face, like their haemorrhoids are firing up. I’ve worked out it’s because they think they’ve said something really fucking profound.’

  ‘Enjoy your moment of triumph, Sergeant. And I use the word “moment” advisedly.’

  ‘What did McGrail tell you?’

  ‘He said new information relating to a cold case has come to light and he’s tasked you with following it up,’ said Charlton. ‘He also acknowledged that the timing wasn’t ideal, given that I’ve just turned down your leave request.’

  ‘But you don’t believe him.’

  Charlton acted affronted. ‘Excuse me? Of course I believed him. I believed every word he said. But our esteemed leader is a man of few words when it suits him, and I was more interested in what he didn’t say. I still am.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I didn’t go over your head.’

  Charlton chuckled, like an indulgent parent listening to a child tell a convoluted but hopelessly transparent fib. ‘Is that right? I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone who believes in fairy tales. As I said, make the most of it — and be careful what you wish for.’

  He stopped pretending that he wasn’t taking it personally, frosting Ihaka with an arctic stare. Then he brushed past Ihaka and went inside.

  Ihaka no longer believed food was about combinations which had stood the test of time: burgers, fish and chips, bacon and eggs, sausages and mash, roast and two veg. Back in the day he would freely admit that restaurants were wasted on him. When he did eat out he had a few non-negotiable requirements: that there was steak on the menu; that they cooked it the way you wanted; that they left your bottle of wine on the table so you could have another glass when you felt like it, as opposed to when the waiter could be arsed bringing the bottle back; that the waiter didn’t expect you to pay attention when he or she went through the specials of the day which no one ever ordered.

  What gave him the shits were restaurants that operated on the basis that the more complicated the dish the better. Where things came on a bed of this and with a drizzle of that. Where you had to ask what half the things on the menu were, and what you’d told your dining companion was probably some sort of pasta was actually a type of seaweed. Where most dishes had so many things going on, they were like sex positions in the Kama Sutra — so elaborate they took the fun out of it. If you were hungry, you didn’t want sixteen competing flavours, you wanted a simple, satisfying feed. Likewise, if you were champing at the bit, who the fuck wanted to contort like a gymnast? The missionary position would do just fine, thanks.

  One time, in this so-called fine dining restaurant, he’d let himself be talked into choosing adventurously. When he ordered the quail starter and duck for the main course, the waiter raised a snooty eyebrow and lowered his pen and notepad. ‘You do realise, sir,’ he said, ‘that’s two fowl courses?’ Ihaka considered various responses before settling for, ‘Do I look like I give a fuck?’

  Then he and Denise discovered Depot in Federal Street, in the shadow of Sky City. At first Ihaka baulked at the idea of shared plates, which was at odds with his whole approach to eating. If other people wanted to share what was on their plate, he’d consider the offer on its merits; if they were expecting reciprocity, however, they were shit out of luck. But he was swayed by Depot’s easy-going atmosphere, the lack of preciousness, and the breezy but professional service. And once he realised that the food was delicious and the smaller shared plates meant that you could actually eat more without drawing attention to yourself, he was sold on the joint.

  Tonight he was on time but Denise was already there, halfway through a glass of sparkling wine. She seemed very pleased to see him; in fact, she’d arranged for Billy to sleep over at a friend’s house so they could reconcile the daylights out of each other, if they were so inclined. He ordered a beer and they spent five minutes happily haggling over the menu before reaching their usual compromise of over-ordering.

  Once the conversation moved away from beef cheeks and pulled pork to the recent unpleasantness, it quickly became apparent that, as far as Denise was concerned, the reconciliation was predicated on two assumptions: that he accepted, and would shortly acknowledge, that he’d fucked up; and that he’d promise there would be no repeat of sa
id fuck-up.

  ‘Listen, how about I just tell you what Miriam had to say?’ he said. ‘Then I think you’ll see it differently.’

  Denise went blank. ‘Miriam?’

  ‘The woman I met the other day. She’s doing a PhD on trade union militancy in the seventies and eighties. You know my old man was up to his neck in that stuff, right? Well, when Miriam was doing her research, she came across something that sort of suggests Dad’s death mightn’t have been the run-of-the-mill heart attack everybody assumed it was. There might’ve been foul play.’

  Denise’s hand flew to her mouth. Not because she was shocked; when she removed her hand, Ihaka realised she was having trouble keeping a straight face. ‘Oh, Tito, no,’ she said. ‘No, come on.’

  ‘No what?’

  ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe that?’

  ‘I’m not saying I believe it,’ he said. ‘But I sure as hell want to check it out. I mean, if it was your old man —.’

  ‘I didn’t go to my father’s funeral,’ said Denise, as if she’d struck a blow for common sense. ‘But that wasn’t what I meant. I meant you don’t seriously expect me to believe that’s why what’s her name wanted to see you?’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, I was kind of hoping you would.’

  ‘This thing you want to check out,’ she said. ‘Where did she come across it?’

  ‘In an old diary. And a week after the old man died, the guy whose diary it was had a fatal accident.’

  Her face twitched again. ‘I’m sorry, but this is just too out there. Honestly, Tito, you don’t have to do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Come up with this . . .’ Her hands fluttered as she tried to think of a less confrontational term than ‘bullshit’. ‘With this stuff. Look, let’s just keep it simple: we both say sorry, you promise you won’t see this bitch again, and we put the whole thing behind us.’