Death on Demand (10 page)

Ihaka drove east, past Panmure Basin, across the Tamaki Estuary, out through Pakuranga and Howick to Cockle Bay. It was rush hour, which meant a stop-start journey, the stops lasting longer than the starts. He thought of his drive home from work, a twenty-minute dawdle through countryside where man and nature had reached a pleasing accommodation. He station-surfed but the airwaves had been monopolized by jerk-offs with that oily radio voice which reminded him of perverts he'd arrested.

The address was a town house two blocks back from the water. It was 5.45 p.m.; the carport was empty. Ihaka parked on the other side of the road, tilted the seat back as far as it would go, and closed his eyes.

At 6.05 a Mitsubishi Pajero, the model before the model before last, swung into the carport. Ihaka got out of the car and crossed the road. The Pajero's driver's door opened. A balding middle-aged man swung his right leg out of the car and looked over his shoulder at Ihaka, keeping his hands out of sight. Ihaka stopped on the footpath, a few metres away. They examined one another.

“Is that a pistol in your pocket,” said Ihaka, “or are you just pleased to see me?”

“Jesus, Chief,” said the other man, “I was that close to giving myself permission to fire at will. Just as well I can tell you fucking Maoris apart.”

“I was counting on that,” said Ihaka. “How're you doing, Blair?”

The man was Blair Corvine, a former undercover policeman who'd been forced to retire after being shot five times at point-blank range. Last time Ihaka had seen him, he was quite a lot skinnier and had ear-studs, a ponytail and a wedge of fluff hanging off his lower lip. Back then his usual outfit was too-tight jeans, T-shirts with slogans intended to cause offence like ‘So many Christians, so few lions', and cowboy boots. Now he looked like just another suburban joe who wore whatever his wife bought him at Farmers.

Corvine got out of the Pajero, slipping the semi-automatic pistol into a backpack. “Can't complain,” he said. “It only hurts when I eat, drink, piss, shit, fart, root, sit down, stand up or water the plants. I take it you're still partial to a cold beer on a warm day?”

Ihaka shrugged. “I wouldn't want you to drink alone.”

As they approached the front door, it was opened by a woman with short grey-blonde hair, dressed for the gym. She had the body of a forty-year-old but the face of a fifty-year-old. Ihaka wondered if exercise was penance for years of hard living. She stood in the doorway, hands on hips, her face clamped in a grim shape, itching for a fight. It was just a question of who she picked on.

“Hey, baby,” said Corvine, bending down to kiss her on the thin white line where her lips used to be. “I know what you're thinking, but he's a cop. Tito, meet Sheree.”

Ihaka put a lot of sincerity into his greeting. He might as well have spat on her cross-trainers.

“You want to take Tito out the back, babe?” said Corvine. “We're having a beer. Can I get you a glass of wine?”

“I'm going to Pilates,” she said, making it sound like “I'm sleeping in the spare room.”

The rear courtyard was a riot of colour: marigolds, petunias and pansies overflowed tubs and ceramic pots, and white and crimson roses swarmed over a trellis. Ihaka carefully lowered himself onto one of the flimsy-looking chairs around a metal café table.

Sheree remained standing, arms folded. “How did you find us?”

“A guy owed me one,” said Ihaka as Corvine appeared with a couple of Peronis.

“Oh, cool.” She trained her eyes on Corvine. “This place is supposed to be top fucking secret, right, and they're handing it out to anyone who's owed a favour?”

“Take it easy, Sheree,” said Corvine. “Tito's not just anyone.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Oh, really? So why's he here – to talk you into a comeback?” She snorted disgustedly. As she walked away, she tossed a “Fucking hell, Blair” over her shoulder.

Corvine sat down. “Sorry about that, mate.”

“Not your fault,” said Ihaka. “I have this effect on women.”

“It was fucking hard on her, man, not knowing whether I was going to make it, then all that fucking rehab and a year down south when we just sort of sat around going slowly out of our minds. Now we're back here, which is great, but you live with the knowledge that there's some real bad bastards in this town who'd be round in a fucking flash if they knew where to find me.”

Ihaka nodded. “I shouldn't have just turned up like that.”

Corvine chuckled. “Run silent, run deep – that's always been the Ihaka way. Glad to see you haven't changed. Every other fucking thing has.”

“What happened, Blair?”

“I got inside this Westie biker gang that was moving a ton of P. One night I got a call from the boss man, Jerry Spragg, to say he needed a hand. Standard stuff, didn't think anything of it. But when I turned up, they kicked the shit out of me, chucked me in the back of a ute, and took me into the bush where Spragg put five fucking rounds in me.”

“Yeah, I heard all that,” said Ihaka. “I meant, how did they know?”

Corvine shook his head slowly. “Beats me. I don't think I fucked up, though. When I first went under, I took that many risks and made that many fuck-ups, I could've been dealt to ten times over, but by then I knew what I was doing. You get a pretty good feel for when you're sweet, when you have to watch your step, and when it's time to get the fuck out of Dodge. Right up till the hammer came down, I was tight with these dudes. I'm telling you, man, it came out of nowhere.”

“So if you didn't fuck up…”

Corvine shrugged. “Two possibilities: P paranoia – there's a lot of it about – or I was ratted out. But they kicked up an unholy shitstorm at Central, turned the place upside down, without finding anything that pointed to a leak. Sheree didn't buy it. Still doesn't. Hence the short fuse.”

“What did Spragg have to say for himself?”

“Not a word – staunch as. Fat lot of good it did him. He's in Paremoremo for all of three weeks and whammo – they did him over, big-time. Now he's a fucking basketcase who sits in a wheelchair shitting his pants and singing ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep'.”

“Friends of yours?”

“Nothing to do with me, mate,” said Corvine. “Routine gang shit slash prison madness, from what I heard. But yeah, I wasn't exactly inconsolable.” He brightened up. “Hey, you know that scene in
Pulp Fiction
when the guy bursts out of
the bathroom with a .44 Mag and unloads on Travolta and the black dude?”

“Vaguely. It was a while ago.”

“Definition of a classic, Chief: it stands the test of time. He doesn't hit squat, remember? They don't have a fucking scratch, so the black guy's convinced it's a miracle and vows to renounce his evil ways. I always thought that scene was bullshit: how could you possibly fire six rounds at a couple of guys standing a few feet away and not even graze either of them?” Corvine threw up his hands, flashing the crazy grin Ihaka hadn't expected to see again. “Look what happened to me.”

“Slight difference,” said Ihaka. “Spragg didn't miss.”

“He missed the vital organs, though – five times. I'm not saying it's a miracle, but it's certainly a freakish occurrence.”

“You were just fucking lucky. A pro would've put one in your swede.”

 

At 8.58 the following morning Superintendent McGrail got out of the lift on the eighth floor of a downtown serviced apartment building. He went down the corridor, stopping at apartment 8F. All being well, Detective Sergeant Ihaka would be on the other side of the door, in a presentable state and prepared for their 9 a.m. meeting.

But Ihaka hadn't responded to McGrail's secretary's voice messages and texts confirming the time of the meeting. And McGrail couldn't help but remember some of the disturbing sights and scenes witnessed by a young Johan Van Roon when he'd turned up to collect Ihaka from his place first thing in the morning. There was the blow-up sex doll in a deckchair on the front porch, with a cucumber in its mouth slot and a sign around its neck saying “I claim this house in the name of Satan”. (An anti-Mormon device, apparently.) There were various distressed or angry women
whose names Ihaka professed not to know and whose distress or anger he professed not to understand.

McGrail shook his head, as if deleting these unwelcome scenes from his memory bank. This wasn't Ihaka's house, it was a serviced apartment in which he'd spent a single night. Even the Ihaka of old at his oafish, anarchic worst couldn't wreak too much havoc in one night. And this wasn't the Ihaka of old. He'd changed during his years in exile. He'd matured.

Oh well, thought McGrail. If he's in a drunken stupor, at least I'll have the consolation of waking him up. He knocked. Ihaka opened the door. He was fully dressed, hair damp from the shower. He hadn't shaved, but then he often didn't. A box of cereal and a carton of orange juice sat on the counter separating the kitchenette from the living area.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” said McGrail. “You got the message, then?”

“Yep.”

“It didn't occur to you that a reply would've been helpful?”

“Silence means consent, doesn't it?”

“Ah, the Roman principle ‘Qui tacet consentire videtur'.”

“That's the bugger,” said Ihaka. “Cup of tea?”

As Ihaka went through the cupboards looking for cups and saucers, McGrail mounted a bar stool. “Seeing you're still here,” he said, “I'm assuming your session with Lilywhite was worthwhile.”

Ihaka waited for the jug to boil. “He had his wife knocked off,” he said eventually. When McGrail didn't respond, he added, “That's your cue to say ‘Well, Sergeant, it looks like you were right and me and all those other fucking geniuses were wrong.'”

McGrail produced a small moleskin notebook and fountain pen. “Before I shower you with plaudits, perhaps you could brief me on it.”

Ihaka delivered a highly condensed version of Lilywhite's confession.

“You obviously believe him?”

“Well, fuck,” said Ihaka, “if anyone's entitled to think they can tell when this guy's lying and when he's not, it'd be me, wouldn't you say?”

“That's as may be, but to apply another of your Roman legal principles, ‘Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus'.”

“Once a liar, always a liar?”

“Well done, Sergeant.”

Ihaka shook his head. “Why would he?”

“I tend to agree. The only point of a false confession would be to protect someone else, but seeing the case was basically closed, there was no need to do that. I owe you an apology, Sergeant. You were right, and the rest of us were wrong. I should've had more faith in your instincts.”

Ihaka shrugged. “What's one ruined career in the grand scheme of things?”

McGrail nodded. “You're entitled to feel aggrieved.”

“I already did.”

McGrail didn't take these remarks seriously. Ihaka had his weaknesses, but self-pity wasn't one of them.

“So what's in the folder?”

Ihaka passed it over. “Contact details for his three mates and some background on those two cases he reckons we should have another look at: a stabbing in Ponsonby and an old lady who fell down the stairs and broke her neck.”

McGrail flipped the folder open. “Oh my goodness.”

“What?”

“Jonathon Bell. That name didn't, well, ring a bell?”

“He's rich, isn't he?”

“That's like saying George Best was a fair footballer. He'll require careful handling.”

“Why are you telling me?” asked Ihaka.

“Don't you want to follow this through?”

“Not if it means going back to square one. Fuck that.”

“This would be a secondment, a special project. You'd report directly to me.”

Ihaka stared. “Are you serious?”

McGrail gestured with the folder. “This is serious, don't you think? Serious matters demand a serious response.”

“Charlton's not going to like it.”

“He doesn't have to.”

Ihaka's face creased happily. “Well, when you put it like that…”

McGrail nodded. “Good.” He gestured with the folder. “I'm classifying this as a cold-case investigation. Apart from anything else, that should go some way towards appeasing our friend Charlton, but let's keep the hired killer element between ourselves for the time being. You're going to need some help.” He waited for Ihaka's groan to peter out. “This could involve a lot of time on the computer and, as I recall, that wasn't your forte.”

“I don't want one of Charlton's pet weasels spying on me.”

“What about Beth Greendale?” said McGrail. “She's done a few part-time research projects for me.”

“Beth'd be great.”

“There, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now I've organized an office and a car, and I'll square your secondment with the Wellington district…”

“And I'll bet you've already got Beth teed up,” said Ihaka accusingly. “You had it all worked out, didn't you?”

“I anticipated an outcome and put some arrangements in place accordingly. Don't look so suspicious, Sergeant: I do that sort of thing all the time. As a matter of fact, I did quite a lot of it when we worked together – you just didn't notice.”

“But you were pretty bloody sure I'd fall into line.”

McGrail resisted the temptation to break into one of his wintry smiles: if Ihaka decided he was being manipulated, all bets were off. “I thought that if Lilywhite turned out to be unfinished business, you'd want to be involved – providing we could put an acceptable structure in place.” He stood up. “There's just the matter of your living arrangements.”