Death on Demand (11 page)

“I'll sort that out,” said Ihaka. “I've got some cousins living at my place. They'll be gone by lunchtime.”

“Won't they expect some notice?”

Ihaka chuckled ominously. “I don't think they're that stupid, but who knows?”

He saw McGrail to the door. “I dropped in on Blair Corvine last night.”

“Did you now? I won't bother asking how you managed to find him.”

“The investigation: was it fair dinkum?”

McGrail cocked his head. “I'd say so. As you know, Corvine always operated perilously close to the edge. In the months before he was shot, his handlers expressed concern about his state of mind and health. His drug intake, in other words.”

“So you're saying?”

“He probably gave himself away without even realizing it.”

“Blame the victim, eh?” said Ihaka. “That's convenient.”

There was a twitch of impatience at the corner of McGrail's mouth. “The fact that the conclusion was the desirable one from the organization's point of view doesn't
ipso facto
– as we classicists say – invalidate it.”

The shoulder-length hair was silver and lifeless and the jawline had lost its battle with middle-aged sag, but not much else had changed. Same outfit: black Levi's, raucous Hawaiian shirt. Same back corner table in the same Herne Bay café. Same paraphernalia: the
Herald
, a highbrow paperback, a laptop computer, and the red soft-pack, made-in-the-US Marlboros he went through at the rate of one every half-hour. Same air of suppressed amusement, same contemptuous glint in the pale blue eyes, just in case you hadn't realized he was way smarter than you.

His name was Doug Yallop, but most people called him Prof. After doing a Ph.D. at Sydney's Macquarie University – the subject of his thesis was the life and works of the unfashionable English novelist Henry Green – he became a junior lecturer at the University of Auckland. It was the late seventies and, as was the case with a lot of university types at that time, Yallop's main priority was ensuring he never ran out of marijuana.

Like the man who admired the product so much he bought the company, Yallop went into the dope business. He quickly became the biggest weed dealer on campus, but while word of mouth was good for business, it was bad for security. As critics of incarceration often point out,
prisons are where criminals go to meet like-minded people, swap ideas and become better criminals. During his seven years in Mount Eden, Yallop got to know a lot of career criminals. He was struck by how many of them possessed all the attributes needed to be successful in their chosen field bar one: intelligence.

When he got out of jail, Yallop set himself up as a consultant in and facilitator of crime. He advised crooks how to carry out specific crimes and organize their ongoing operations; he put together crews; he acted as a go-between and mediator when competition escalated into conflict, or when rival groups could see the benefits of cooperation but didn't know how to go about it. He even researched and planned jobs and sold the blueprints to the highest bidder. Because he was careful and smart and had a good lawyer, it proved so difficult to convict him of anything that eventually the police stopped trying very hard.

Ihaka sat down at his table. “Hey, Prof. How's it going?”

Yallop looked up from his book, removing his reading glasses. “Well, I'll be fucked,” he said in an accent as dinky-di as the day he crossed the Tasman. “I thought you'd been put out to pasture.”

“Think of it as a journey of self-discovery.”

Yallop snorted, shoulders shaking. “I could've saved you the trouble.”

“How's that?”

Yallop bookmarked the paperback and put it aside. “Why are you a cop, Ihaka? We both know it's not for the money.”

Ihaka shrugged. “A bloke's got to do something.”

“That's it?”

“And I'm good at it.”

“Yeah, but you'd be just as good playing for the other team – and much better rewarded.”

“Well, Prof, I'm not a materialistic person. And let's face it, the other team are a bunch of cunts, present company excepted.”

Even though he knew Ihaka didn't mean it, Yallop ducked his head as if acknowledging a compliment. “Whereas your mob are top blokes, to a man?”

“I wouldn't say that, but the cunt count's definitely lower. Now a brainbox like you doesn't ask a question without knowing the answer, so you tell me: why am I a cop?”

Yallop leaned back, pink with admiration for his own perceptiveness. “Becoming a cop was the only way to stop yourself becoming a crim. As you're well aware, you've got deep-seated antisocial tendencies. If you weren't a cop, sooner or later they would've come to the fore. So the answer to the question is: self-awareness.”

“It's one thing to be aware you've got antisocial tendencies, it's another to want to keep a lid on them.”

“Ah, that always goes back to the same thing: upbringing; family background; parental example.”

“Is that your excuse?”

“Shit, no, my folks were the salt of the earth. They scrimped and saved so that little Dougie, the apple of their four eyes, could go to a private school. No, mate, I'm the exception that proves the rule. So what brings you back?”

“Just tidying up a few loose ends.”

“None of my fucking business, in other words. Fair enough. But seeing you obviously want something from me, a little give-and-take wouldn't go amiss.”

“I don't see it that way, Prof. You've had a pretty good run.”

Yallop reopened his paperback. “Thank you linesmen, thank you ball boys, fuck you.”

Ihaka frowned like someone stuck on a crossword clue. “You know, I could lean over and smack you in the mouth, or I could pretend I didn't hear that. You have a preference?”

Yallop held Ihaka's stare, stretching it out, although they both knew how it was going to end.

“What the hell,” said Yallop eventually. “I'm sixty-five next month, I'm virtually retired. I just want to be everyone's mate. Of course, sometimes being matey with one bloke means being very un-fucking-matey with another, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. What's up?”

“Three cases spread over six years. A woman run over in Kohimarama, a bloke stabbed on his way home from the pub just around here, and an old lady in Remuera who went arse over elbow down the stairs. Current status is unsolved hit-and-run, unsolved robbery-murder and accident, but we've picked up a whisper there's a hitman out there.”

Yallop's expression gave nothing away. “Well, we can both think of a few guys who'd take out their grannies in a heartbeat if the price was right, but this doesn't sound like them. First off, they're shooters. They don't fuck around trying to make it look like an accident. Secondly, apart from the odd grudge, hits are usually a tactical measure or countermeasure in an ongoing blue between professional criminals over territory or supply or market share. What we have here, if I'm not mistaken, is a bunch of dead people with no connection to what's melodramatically referred to as the underworld.”

“As far as we know.”

“This is amateur hour, Sergeant – I'm assuming that's still your rank.” Ihaka nodded, noting the sparkle of malice in Yallop's eyes. “Something rotten in the leafy suburbs, fear and loathing in Labrador land. Not my scene – I'm fussy about the company I keep. Can't help you, I'm afraid.”

Yallop was a skilled liar, but Ihaka tended to believe him. The reason he didn't know anything was the reason he might have coughed up if he did: it wasn't his world, therefore no skin off his nose.

“So someone walks in here tomorrow wanting a hitter, what would you tell them?”

“If I didn't know them,” said Yallop slowly, “or know of them, I'd tell them to fuck off. If I did know them or they came with a reference, I'd tell them two things: one, don't say another word to me; two, go and see the heavy mob. You know who they are as well as I do. You also know bloody well that the stuff you're talking about – clipping eastern suburbs dowagers – isn't their bag. They'd regard that sort of shit as beneath them.”

Ihaka nodded gloomily. “Changing the subject, what about Blair Corvine?”

Yallop's guffaw sounded forced. “You're asking me? Your lot were all over that like a cheap suit.”

Ihaka shrugged. “No harm in getting a second opinion.”

Yallop scooped up his cigarettes and lighter. “Smoko.” They went out to the courtyard. Before they'd even sat down, Yallop had lit up and was exhaling with the gratified, drawn-out sigh of a man who counted the minutes till his next cigarette.

“We were talking about Corvine.”

“So we were. I haven't heard anything to suggest he was ratted out, if that's where you're coming from. Word on the street was he got careless with his cellphone – used it to ring the wrong people then left it lying around for someone to have a nosey through call history.”

“That doesn't sound very likely,” said Ihaka.

Yallop looked away, concentrating on his cigarette. “You asked, I told you what I heard. It's a matter of complete fucking indifference to me whether you believe it or not. How's he doing, by the way?”

It came out smoothly, a casual enquiry about a mutual acquaintance. “I wouldn't know,” said Ihaka, a reasonably accomplished liar himself. “Haven't seen him for years. But I'm touched by your concern.”

“Actually, I couldn't give a shit,” said Yallop with a crooked grin. “I just have a vague professional curiosity. How many new holes did they give him?”

“Well, one's too many, isn't it.”

“I seem to remember it was quite a few too many. But, hey, he lived to tell the tale.”

“Which apparently is more than you can say for Jerry Spragg.”

“Eh? He's still around.”

“But not telling too many tales, I hear.”

“Oh, I see what you mean. Yeah, it seems the post-prison career as an after-dinner speaker isn't a goer.”

“What happened there?”

Yallop sat up straighter, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Let's see, you asked me about a hitter and your boy Corvine, and now you want to know about Tom the Turnip or whatever the fuck Spragg answers to these days. You running a tab here, Sergeant?”

“I'd say I'm still in credit,” said Ihaka with a faint smile. “This could make us all square.”

“I'll hold you to that. I thought Spragg would be okay inside because he had protection, but I guess when you're used to being the big dog, it's hard to get your head around the concept of vulnerability. I heard he made two mistakes: he treated people like shit and he didn't listen to his minders. First rule of maximum, Sergeant: the price of staying in one piece is eternal vigilance.”

“I thought it was: if you drop the soap in the shower, let someone else pick it up.”

“No, mate, you don't get to choose. Some guys drop the soap, some guys have to bend over and pick it up. Pure social Darwinism.”

“So who dealt to him?”

Yallop stood up, stubbing out his cigarette. “Random hard-arses. It was standard recreational violence, so what
fucking difference does it make? I think we're done here.”

Back inside Yallop slipped into his seat and jabbed his laptop into life. “Have to say, Sergeant, that's a lot of loose ends.”

“I've got a bit of catching up to do.”

“You around for a while?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Let's not do this again. I've got a reputation to protect.”

“That works both ways.”

Yallop snickered. “You sure about that? You've been gone a while, digger. Your reputation ain't what it used to be.”

Ihaka gave him a long, unfriendly stare. “Watch this space.”

 

Ihaka's house wasn't immaculate, but it was a lot cleaner and tidier than when he'd arrived there unannounced that morning to give his nephew and cousins a life lesson: all good things must come to an end. It was a short visit and an even shorter conversation, culminating with his promise that if the place wasn't spick and span when he returned he'd hunt them down and confiscate their scrotums. After Uncle Tito had got back in his car and driven off, the boys had a bit of a laugh about that. Then they got down to work.

Ihaka's sister and one of his aunts had left messages on the answerphone, complaining about the suddenness of the eviction. He couldn't be bothered ringing them back to point out that lack of notice was the downside of a peppercorn rent.

He made a pile of sandwiches from the rotisserie chicken and salad ingredients he'd picked up at the supermarket and ate supper on the veranda. He wasn't really sure what he felt about the turn of events. On the one hand it was nice to be back in his own home; on the other he'd grown
quite attached to the rented cottage on a country lane that snaked through farmland between State Highway 2 and the edge of the Tararua Forest. He was a born and bred Aucklander, in tune with the erratic rhythm of the city, unfazed by its mass and sprawl. He enjoyed the buzz of striving, restless humanity. And unsentimental and solitary though he was, the blue lure of the harbour or the diamond-studded silhouette of the city at night still gave him a sense of belonging.

But in Auckland he was always a cop, and therefore always on a war footing. In Wairarapa he left the job behind when he turned off State Highway 2. Being a loner in the city seemed to cause others aggravation: they called him bloody-minded, told him he had an attitude problem, interpreted solitariness as alienation, if not hostility. Country folk respected solitude. They understood the oppressiveness of other people.