Soon (22 page)

Weeks was dead, it was an accident, he would have done more harm than good calling an ambulance
. Repeat this. Keep it in your head.

But now he'd lied to the police the consequences of discovery could be much worse, and perhaps he'd made an appalling miscalculation, imagining such a crime could remain unsolved. Still, he could hope. The police weren't superhuman . . .

Suppose he rang Marie Da Silva now and told her everything, explained why he hadn't come clean. He imagined the relief as he unburdened himself, appealed to her: Ms Da Silva, what would you have done? I had no choice; I did no harm; I sought only to minimise damage to my family and friends. (Not to mention to the government.) But think about it: he would be supplying her with a motive for harming Weeks. And
had
he wanted to harm him? He could hardly remember now, the whole terrible day was a blur. No, he had only wanted the trouble to go away. Yet he could imagine what his blonde tormentor, aggressive little Marie, would say to that: ‘You wanted the trouble to go away. So you came up behind him and pushed . . .'

Da Silva, with her rare eyes. Like Claire, that mix of youthful aggression and vulnerability. When Claire was on the warpath you could deflect her with a show of coldness. She would fix those big clear eyes on you, look suddenly lost. She always thought she was ‘just being rational'; it took her by surprise, hurt her, when she made people angry.

He was still standing on the side of the road. A truck roared by, the blast of its slipstream shaking the car. The sheep sent up their mournful cries. It was fanciful to compare Da Silva to Claire, to imagine he could outwit or bully a trained detective. He got in the car and drove.

Confession

No one knew where Ford was. Karen said he'd been playing tennis with Garth and now he'd gone walking over the dunes, but the beach was empty as far as Simon could see except for a couple with a dog and some kids hurling themselves, screaming, off the top of a bank of sand. He went out to the road and asked Ray, who was sitting in the gate house with his feet up doing the
Herald
crossword. Ford hadn't been past. On his way to the Little House he met Tuleimoka, who shook her head, no.

He said, ‘Thanks. Oh, Tulei? I was just wondering . . . Jung Ha?'

‘She is leaving.'

‘Why?'

Tulei raised both hands and adjusted the comb in her shining black hair. Her expression was hard, closed. ‘Don't know. Between her and Missus.'

He went to the edge of the main lawn and saw Ford had walked south, out to the point, where there was a seat under a crooked pine tree and waves breaking on the rocks below. When he got there Ford was stubbing out a cigarette on the edge of the wooden seat.

‘You're smoking again.'

‘Only two a day since Emily left. There's no one to nag me.'

Simon sat down. ‘I'll nag you. Even two a day's bad for your heart. You know that, don't you.'

They watched the gannets diving, hitting the water like missiles.

‘You need someone to nag you. There must be lots of women would love to have you, have some kids with you.'

Ford said, ‘I did have Emily's kid while we were together.'

‘I know, you said she was obnoxious. But you'd love your own.'

‘No, she wasn't obnoxious. It was difficult, that's all.'

Ford lit another cigarette and glanced at Simon. He said, ‘The day before Emily left, the council had redone the pavement outside the house, made verges and planted grass seed. There were long strips of dirt scattered with the seed. Caro walked on ours, left her footprints all over the soil. I was annoyed, I said don't be such a destructive little shit, now the grass won't grow, you've squashed the seed. Emily and I had a row because I'd told Caro off and she decided it was the last straw, she was off. A couple of mornings after they'd gone I came out of the house, and in the dirt were Caro's footprints. No other grass had grown, but where she'd stepped, the shoots had come up exactly in the shape of her shoe. These little green footprints made of grass.'

A gannet plummeted into the sea.

‘That summed up parenthood for me,' Ford said.

‘Well, I suppose. You're often wrong, and it's always your fault.'

Ford chewed the edge of his thumbnail. ‘If you walk on the seed, pack it down, it must make it grow faster. Anyway, for days, until the rest of the verge grew, I walked past her little grass footprints.'

‘I'm sorry, Ford.'

Ford shot the half-smoked cigarette into the dunes, rubbed his eyes. ‘Ah, don't be sorry. She was pretty obnoxious. And Emily wasn't May.'

‘No loss then.'

‘No. Smoke?'

‘Very funny. No thanks. Ford, I need your help.'

‘That sounds serious.'

‘It is. Ford, I've done . . . a terrible thing.'

The sun was melting and sinking, the sky was strung with wispy ropes of fine red cloud. Ford had his head in his hands. Beside him Simon sat and stared hopelessly at the sea, silver and flat like mercury; it looked chemical, congealed. He put his hand on Ford's shoulder, but Ford shook him off. ‘Shut up,' he said. And a bit later, ‘Christ.'

‘Ford?'

‘I'm thinking. How could you? What were you . . . ?'

‘I told you, it was an accident. I didn't do it. It just
happened
.'

Ford straightened up, ‘This woman. The South Auckland woman he was asking about, you've never heard from her again?'

‘No.'

‘And the police have phone records and they've questioned you more than once, and they barged into a work seminar. And they said Weeks had your name written down in his house, along with the name of the woman. Have the police looked for the woman?'

‘I don't know.'

‘And after the, the
incident
, you drove away through the suburbs, avoided commercial areas, drove home and then went to work. And you hadn't been in to work first, only got as far as the street outside work. Why did you go home after you'd been to Weeks's?'

‘I put Karen's car back and took my own to work.'

‘You were driving
Karen's
car?'

‘Mine was making a noise and smell, overheating. We'd left Karen's at the house while we were at Rotokauri, so I called in to see Claire before work and I took it.'

Ford stared.

‘It was just chance I took her car.'

‘Just chance.'

‘Yes.'

‘So as far as work's concerned, you turned up that morning at work, on time, in your own car.'

‘Yes.'

‘And then, after work, you drove back to Rotokauri in your own car, the one with the funny noise and smell.'

‘Yes. I made it back and then took it to the Rotokauri Garage.'

‘And no one saw you at Weeks's.'

‘I assume not, or I would have heard.'

‘But they can track your whereabouts through your cell phone. They'll have a record of you going up Weeks's street.'

‘No, I turned the phone off. Oh, and then I left it in my office mailbox in the street, before I went to Weeks's.'

Ford looked at him. ‘You turned off your phone and left it behind at your office.'

‘It kept ringing, my secretary was hassling me. I wanted a clear head.'

‘You took your wife's car. You left your cell phone behind. You removed evidence from the scene. You lied to the police.'

‘Yes, but none of it was calculated. It just happened.'

‘Not calculated. Or planned?'

‘Honestly, Ford.'

A long silence.

‘Did you want to harm the guy? Did you mean to?'

‘No. He threatened me, he gave me a fright, but I didn't want to hurt him. I've never hurt anyone in my life. You know that.'

Ford scratched his stubble. ‘It just
happened.
It's an interesting defence.'

‘I swear the only reason I didn't tell anyone is because of how it would look. The damage was done . . . had happened. It was an accident. Think of the harm I'd do to the Hallwrights, to Karen, all of us, if I told.'

Tapping an unlit cigarette on his arm, Ford looked uneasily at Simon, put the cigarette back in the packet, rubbed his hair into a tangled mess. Silence. He walked away across the top of the dunes, kicking the marram grass.

Finally he came back. ‘I don't know what's happened to you.'

‘Ford . . .'

‘This is bad. I can't believe it. You're with these corrupt people. And now . . .'

‘For once, spare me your fucking moralising. These “corrupt people”, as you call them, have got nothing to do with it. I'm trying to protect them.'

Ford stood over him. ‘You want to be with the Hallwrights because they make you feel respectable, like you've made it. You've never got over Aaron. Even now he's dead.'

‘Don't talk to me about that violent prick.'

‘Aaron never killed anyone.'

Their eyes locked. Simon stood up.

Ford planted himself square, big arms folded. ‘You going to attack me now? Going to kill me?'

Simon wanted to smash him. ‘Aaron has nothing to do with it.'

‘Aaron wouldn't have had anything to do with Hallwright.'

A sound escaped from Simon, almost a laugh, incredulous. ‘Aaron was a drunk and a loser. Who
cares
what he would have done?'

‘But he was clever. He was ruined, bad; sure, you could say he was a disgusting bastard, but he wouldn't have associated with Hallwright. He had political standards.'

‘Oh that's hilarious. You're going to hold
Aaron
over me. As an ethical standard.'

Ford pointed at him. ‘You're better than these people. The only reason you cling to them is low self-esteem.'

‘Low self-esteem!' Simon bent over, squeezing his aching knee. ‘I associate with the Prime Minister because I've got low self-esteem. That's rich.'

Weak laughter made him shake. He lowered himself down on the seat. A stab of hot pain went through his kneecap and he bent over, bumping his face against Ford's leg. He grabbed Ford's thigh and pressed his forehead against it, rode the pain.

He let go. Ford sat down beside him. Silence, then the click of a lighter, Ford blowing out a long cloud of smoke.

Simon watched a group of seagulls pecking at something on the sand. ‘What am I going to do?'

Ford said distantly, ‘I keep going over it. You say it just “happened”. But you've managed to get away with it without leaving much evidence. Could you have meant to do it subconsciously? Would it be possible to commit a crime without consciously intending to?'

Simon groaned. ‘Don't get abstract. I need your help.'

Ford picked a bit of tobacco off his lip, his voice deliberate. ‘You always looked down on Aaron, despised him. Distanced yourself. Both you and Karen've accused me of taking after him.'

‘We haven't.'

‘But is there a bit of Aaron in you after all?'

They looked at each other, and the tiny gleam of malice in Ford's eyes made Simon hollow. Would Ford turn on him, now he had the power?

‘The bad seed,' Ford said.

Had he made Ford hate him?

The pain in his knee was so bad it seemed to have its own sound, a blare in rhythm with his heartbeat. He waited, hung on, instinct telling him to hope; if you endured his baiting, Ford would come round. Having punished you, he'd show his real face.

Aaron said, ‘Not so respectable now, Dr Lampton.'

Eyes, nose, jaw, even the shape of the teeth, he saw his father's face, and when he looked down he saw his father's big, strong hand holding the cigarette, lifting it to the thin, derisive mouth, drawing in smoke and letting it curl.

He jumped up, his face blazing, Ford got up, pushed him, the knee felled him and he sank down on the seat. Ford got his arm in a hurting grip, stared into his face, then shoved him roughly sideways and walked away.

Simon looked at the birds skimming over the sea in the last of the light. Could he have formed a subconscious intention to hurt Weeks? An evil spirit within, the spirit of Aaron: there was horror in the idea and he rejected it; it wasn't possible to shape events subconsciously. And yet so many of his problems had been brought about by impulses he didn't understand. He didn't know why he'd sought out Mereana; he didn't know why he'd loved her and then hated her. All he could do was try to control the mess he'd made.

The cold thought came to him: it had been a mistake to confess. Ford had gained an enormous power; he despised Hallwright, and he was right that Simon and Karen had sometimes called him a chip off the old block. How could he resist giving them their comeuppance? He could potentially damage the National government too, and he would find
that
a deliciously amusing prospect.

Seeing his brother coming back along the dune Simon steeled himself to the anticipation of grief. Losing his family, friends, practice. His whole life.

Ford stood over him. ‘The question is whether you can ride it out. Whether the police will draw a blank and leave you alone. My guess is no.'

‘No?' Simon could hear the pleading in his voice, relief too that Ford's tone had changed.
Little brother
.

Ford paced. ‘There's too much to interest them. They're harassing you, interrupting you at work, probably trying to make you worried. I can't really see how you can get away with it. There's always evidence somewhere. Forensics.'

Simon broke in, ‘But there are lots of unsolved crimes. Look at
Crimewatch
. The police are on TV every week asking for evidence.'

Ford looked grimly amused. ‘
Crimewatch
. You've been watching it, have you? Boning up?'

‘I could lose everything. My whole life.'

‘Like Weeks lost his.'

‘It was an accident. He came after me, hounded me, threatened everything I've built up, everything I've worked for, and it was all for his stupid meaningless
art.
He talked about his
art,
the fucking vampire, as if he wasn't playing games with real people's lives.'

‘Art. No wonder you had to kill him.'

Simon counted to ten,

‘No matter what you say, I reject your bullshit about subconscious actions. I did not mean to hurt him.'

‘Is there anything you've left out?'

‘No. The woman detective did say they'll need to talk to me again.'

‘Did she. We need to prevent it.'

‘How?'

Ford went on pacing. The sky behind him was marbled with red, the dunes were a black line.

Simon looked up, remembering. ‘The detective might have implied Weeks rang other people. I'm not sure. Weeks asked me about Roza. He asked if she'd had a wild youth, mentioned drugs. He said someone had told him a story about her. A woman.'

Ford walked away again, came back. ‘Two choices. You sit and wait for the police to come to you. Perhaps they won't and it'll all go away. But the more often they talk to you, the greater the risk you'll be implicated. The alternative to waiting for them is, you ask for help.'

‘A lawyer. Know any good ones?'

‘Not a lawyer. Better than that. Talk to your best friend. And
his
oldest, most slavishly loyal friend.'

‘To David. And Ed Miles.'

‘Who is . . .'

‘The Minister of Police. I can't do that. Confess?'

Ford thought about another cigarette, checked himself, put it back in the packet, clicked his lighter. ‘Not a confession, not if you do it right.'