The Mark of Halam (5 page)

12.

B
arbara Heywood tapped her pencil on her pad. Scrawled messages, adhesive notes and doodles covered the top sheet. Untidy piles of manila folders sat in plastic trays on the floor against the back wall. A rarely used grey metal filing cabinet sat in one corner and a coat rack in the other. On the wall to Barbara’s right hung a whiteboard. The office was small but comfortable and easily accommodated her desk, three chairs and a small stool holding the ceramic pot and rubber plant given to her at the Christmas party. The tips of the leaves had browned and the stems sagged. The note on her pad to water her plant had been ignored.

There was no rhythm to her beating pencil.

Where the hell was her assistant?

She threw her pen on the desk and walked out to reception.

“Jodie, have you seen Lydia? Has she phoned?”

“I’m sorry, Ms Heywood. I haven’t seen her. She did ring through earlier and asked to speak with Jason.”

“Really?”

Barbara reached over the counter and plucked a protesting Jodie’s phone from the cradle. She punched in her producer’s number.

“Talk to me.” The producer’s phone manner always irked her.

“Jason. Did Lydia speak with you this morning?”

“Barbara. And good morning to you as well. Ah, yes, Lydia did phone. She quit.”

“How do you mean she quit?”

“Resigned. Left the job. Her exact words were, let me see if I can remember, oh yes: ‘I’m not prepared to work for that bitch any more’. Then I think there was a, ‘screw you all’.”

“Interns are weak these days. Bad parenting. Too much molly-coddling.”

“That’s three in six months, Barbara. If I was staying I’d have to send you on a management course.”

“I know how to manage people.”

“Abusing is not managing. Be nice. Don’t scream at them.”

“I’m the anchor and, I might add, the award-winning journalist who provides the meat for your top-rated current affairs show, Jason. Being sweet doesn’t cut it with news broadcasting. You of all people should know that.”

“Just try to be a half-decent human being, that’s all I ask. We could be sued.”

“All right, I’ll be nice. And what do you mean, if you were staying?”

“I’m leaving. Today. I’m going to talk back radio. No prima donnas, so I’m told. I need a change.”

“What about me? The show?”

“Hank Challis is taking over.”

“Hank the Yank? Are you kidding me? The guy is an idiot. Who made that decision?”

“Well it was a vote of attrition really. Hank was the only producer who would work with you.”

“You’re an asshole, Jason.”

Barbara dropped the phone into Jodie’s outstretched hand. “Slam that down will you.”

Jodie looked over the rim of her glasses but before she could speak Barbara spun on her heel and disappeared, leaving two swinging doors in her wake.

The day was off to a bad start; Lydia leaving, Jason leaving and now Hank the Yank was to be her new boss. By the time Barbara reached the end of the corridor she was contemplating a new career.

The network employed a small group of researchers who shared an office on the second floor. Mostly they were new graduates prepared to accept a token salary to get a foot in the door to kick-start a television career. Five heads, nestled on stooped shoulders and peering into computer screens, did not swing her way when Barbara entered the room. She had never been in the room before but knew the five were wannabe writers who worked on anything from documentaries to the locally produced soaps and games shows. Barbara surveyed the mix of young men and women. She ruled out a male assistant. She didn’t have time to deal with young men having fantasies about getting into her pants.

Finally a head looked up. “May I help you, Ms Heywood?”

The speaker was a young woman in her early twenties. Pretty. Short black hair, two studs in her left ear and probably a tattoo hidden somewhere. She was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and running shoes. Must be the uniform, Barbara thought, as they all seemed to be dressed the same except the guys’ jeans were bigger. The girl looked intelligent. Barbara accepted she must capable enough to have been given the job. Even though the station only paid a pittance they seldom hired idiots. Hank the Yank was the exception.

“What is your name?” Barbara asked.

“Amy Monroe.”

“How long have you been working here?”

“One year.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I finished university, spent a year travelling overseas then came back and worked as a waitress until I came here.”

“What are you working on?”

“Making up questions for a new weekly quiz show. A variation of Mastermind.”

“Anyone can do that. Amy Monroe, grab your belongings and come with me.”

Amy’s head fell back, eyebrows raised and mouth open; the bewildered look of a deer looking down the barrel of a hunter’s rifle. She shrugged, pushed back her chair and picked up a pad and pen and prepared to follow.

“No, everything, Amy. Your coat and bag. You no longer work here.”

“I don’t? Have I lost my job?” Amy looked at the others, stunned.

“Just follow me,” Barbara commanded.

Amy put on her jacket and grabbed her bag from under the desk. Barbara had already left the room. Amy scurried off after her and followed Barbara downstairs.

“This was the office of my last assistant. It is now your office. You now work for me. Lydia was the best research assistant in the business. You will try to live up to her standards,” said Barbara.

“I’m working for you?”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No. Not at all. Thank you.”

“Good. Now, your first job is to go down to the canteen and get two coffees. I have mine black with one sugar. Bring them through to my office and bring a notepad. We have work to do.”

Barbara returned two phone messages and checked her emails before Amy placed two coffees on her desk. Barbara took a sip. Too much sugar. She remembered Jason’s words and resisted throwing a pen. She instead continued her unmelodic tap, tap, tap, on the desk pad. She knew it used to irritate the hell out of Lydia, and wondered how long it would be before Amy started to cast her glances.
Barbara dropped the pencil into the ‘Support Black Magic’ cof
fee mug, a souvenir she had bought to support New Zealand’s America’s Cup Campaign.

“All right, Amy. This is your chance to surprise me. I need ideas for this week’s programme. What have you got?”

Amy’s mouth dropped open.

“You want me to give you a story.”

Barbara nodded, “I take it you keep up with the world at large, local affairs, life in general.”

“Yes as a matter fact of I do. Let me see. Each day is the same. Take your pick. Demonstrations, political statements, food poisoning, drink-driving campaign, anti-smoking campaign, anti-everything campaign.”

Barbara smiled. “You’re far too young to be cynical. Besides those topics are general news items. I need meat. The station pays us to scoop stories. Comprehende?”

“How about the submarine? It’s almost here,” Amy offered.

“And when it does get here we’ll be on it twenty-four hours a day. The public will be submarined to death. Still, now that you’ve brought it up, in your spare time start gathering background on the bloody thing. How many crew, what makes it run, why it’s so dangerous, if it is?”

“I’ll try to track down a retired Admiral or Captain or officer of some sort. There is technical stuff on the internet but it’s beyond me.”

“On the technical stuff maybe you could try one of the protest groups. They usually have all that information. Their intelligence system is better than our secret service.”

“Will do.”

“And get a comment from a government spokesperson,” Barbara said.

“And if they clam up?”

“Talk to the opposition.”

Amy nodded.

“There is one thing I heard,” Amy started. “Might be something, might be nothing.”

“I’m listening,” Barbara said.

“Friday night there was an incident which on its own might mean nothing. Two women attacked in their apartment,” she said slowly and measuredly.

Barbara had read about it in the
Herald
.

“Attempted murder is general news. Not for my programme,” Barbara said, irritable.

Amy grinned. “One of the girls attacked was Mary Sumner.” Amy paused for effect.

“The Olympic triathlete?” Barbara asked.

“One and the same.”

“Mary Sumner works for a lawyer. I’ve spoken to her a number of times trying to get an interview with Jeff Bradley. Quentin is Jeff’s lawyer. Poor girl. Wow. A feature on violence against women could be a goer. We haven’t touched the subject for more than a year.”

“There’s more.”

“For God’s sake, Amy, let me lay it out for you, I hate games.”

Amy seemed undeterred by the reprimand. “From what I was told the guy who attacked them was suffocating Mary’s flatmate when she came to the rescue. Beat the guy up with a baseball bat and sent him on his way. A real heroine.”

Barbara played with a strand of her hair. Not long enough to reach her shoulders but long enough to reach her lips. Her mother would have slapped her wrists if she had still been living with her parents.

“Then there is the real juicy part.”

Barbara arched her eyebrows.

“There was a note. The killer was after Mary Sumner. It wasn’t random.”

“How did you come by this information?”

“I have my sources and they will remain my sources,” Amy stated, strength to her tone. Then she blushed.

Barbara stiffened, stunned by the bluntness of her new assistant. But liking her attitude.

“I’m sorry, Ms Heywood, I didn’t mean it to come out like that what I meant was—”

Barbara held up her hand, “Don’t ever apologise for doing a good job.”

“There is something else. It might be something it might not.”

“Go on.”

“There is an Inspector Brian Cunningham attached to the investigating squad.”

“From the Special Tactics Group?” Barbara asked.

Amy nodded, surprised.

“I know Brian,” Barbara said. “And don’t look so surprised. I’m a news reporter. The police supply us with much of our news. It’s my job to know the top brass. We only have one swat team.” Barbara reached for her tapping pencil. “The question is, why would the Special Tactics Group be interested in an assault on two women?”

13.

C
ar keys in hand, Jeff was set to leave his home when a flicking red light caught his eye. Two messages on his answer phone. He pushed the button.

“Jeff, it’s Quentin. You need to come into the office and sign the land sale and nightclub documents.”

The other message was from the wine festival organisers in Whangarei. The committee was waiting for the selection of Boundary Fence wine. If Jeff wanted his wine in the competition he needed to get it to them as quickly as possible. Right now, with Akbar about, he disliked the idea of an absence from Auckland for any amount of time, but life went on and Boundary Fence needed prize-winning wine. He could courier it but to make sure it got there he preferred to deliver it himself. He would go up on Monday and come back on the same day.

He had expected a message from Brian Cunningham. He toyed with the idea of phoning then dismissed it. They had fought in a war together. Cunningham didn’t need to leave any more messages; he knew Jeff well enough to know he would not walk away. But Cunningham could wait a little longer. Business had to come first. Akbar would lie low for a few days. He had time.

The meeting with the wholesaler went well. A pallet of wine per month was a good start. He phoned the order through to the vineyard. Marko promised to have the first pallet delivered later in the day.

Next, Jeff made his way to Quentin’s office.

“I thought I might see Mary back at work,” he said when he saw Quentin sitting at the reception desk.

“She’s in good shape. She wanted to come in but Jeannie wouldn’t hear of it. Her mother was up for a couple of days but Mary convinced her to go back to Wellington. You know Mary, beautiful and tough as old boots. Ann, poor soul, is really quite out of it. She still hasn’t uttered a word other than a few whispers to Mary. Anyway she has gone home with her parents. Means Mary has no flatmate which is why she is still at my place. Jeannie won’t hear of her being home alone. A doctor is coming in later today to
give her the once over. If he clears her Mary said she’ll go back to
her apartment anyway.”

“Really? Not a good move I wouldn’t think. He’ll go after her again. I should move her in with me and keep her close.” Quentin shrugged. “Forget it. I told you, keep your hands off my staff.”

Jeff frowned. “Hire someone to watch over her. I’ll pay. She’s in danger because of me.”

“Already organised, my friend. I’ll overcharge you on your next account.”

Jeff smiled. “Where are these documents you want me to sign?”

Quentin opened the folder on the desk. “Right here.” Jeff signed where Quentin pointed. “That’s it. You’re now the owner of a fat cheque and a partner in a nightclub”

Jeff shook his head.

“Now you can buy me lunch. Come down to the club first. I’m looking to open on Saturday,” Quentin said.

“Really? That quickly.”

“I’ve been planning it for twenty years,” Quentin laughed, “so it doesn’t seem that quick for me. Anyway, it needs a trial run. Invited guests, that sort of thing. A trial for the staff mostly.”

“Got a name for it yet?”

“Not yet. Been tossing a few ideas round and I need to make a
decision today if the sign is to be ready in time.”

“What does Jeannie think? I’m surprised she agreed.”

Quentin shrugged, and then offered a sheepish grin.

“You still haven’t told her. Jesus, Quentin, you’re digging a bloody big hole for yourself.”

“I have a plan. I bring her along on opening night. She has a
great time and then I tell her it’s ours.”

“Quentin, that’s a very bad plan,” Jeff said shaking his head.

“Too late now, I’ve sent out the invitations. I’ve invited my clients
and the media. Hopefully they’ll all turn up for a freebie night.”

Quentin’s office was only a short walk away from the club, which was located on Fort Street in the heart of downtown Auckland’s night-time play area. Jeff noted new apartment buildings had gone up on the site that once housed a wheat mill. Cafés, restaurants, bars, sauna parlours, strip clubs and backpacker accommodation lined both sides of the street. Jeff had to admit Quentin had chosen the ideal location. Lots of young tourists from the hostels should keep his club full most nights. Not that he needed them especially. There were hordes of people wandering Fort Street and the surrounding streets most nights until the early hours.

Jeff stood next to Quentin in the centre of the dance floor. Confused.

“What do you think?” Quentin asked.

“It looks like the inside of your office.”

Quentin grinned. “That’s the master stroke. It’s a step back into the past. The theme is a history of New Zealand Rock music. Sort of like my very own Hall of Fame and on the walls, the wall of fame.”

“If it’s a hall or wall of fame as you put it, how is it the biggest photo montage is of you and your band?” Jeff teased.

“Mock us not, my friend. We were ahead of our time. Anyway this club will feature live bands and promote new artists. Live music, a dance floor and a meander down memory lane. Think about it. Everyone loves living in the past, it’s when you had the most fun.”

“The people from your past are in retirement villages.”

“Not funny. This club is about relaxing and having a good time. I’ve left the area in front of the bar open for mixing and mingling and the dance floor is big enough for thirty to forty at a time.”

Jeff shook his head. But he had to admit there was a relaxing ambience to the place. All the cubicle seating down one wall was upholstered in deep burgundy leather. Four seat tables ran along in front of the cubicles and a line of taller stand tables and stools. Quentin was either going to be very right or down-the-tubes wrong.

What the hell, Jeff thought, for the time being a nightclub might be fun and it would be selling Boundary Fence wine.