Death on Demand (14 page)

She roamed the garden, the self-contained world where the hours meandered by like bumblebees. Their garden guru had been through a few days earlier, otherwise she might have been tempted to get down on her knees with a trowel.

She reminded herself that she was working to a timetable. She could probably afford to spend another hour dwelling on what she'd leave behind, but what was the point? She went inside and washed her hands, taking care not to look in the mirror.

She poured vodka into a cut-glass tumbler and added orange juice, hurrying now, almost in a rush to retrieve the
sleeping pills from the bottom of the drawer, under layers of winter cashmere.

She climbed the stairs, the drink sloshing in the glass, not noticing the art now, just concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other.

She went into her bedroom – she and her husband no longer slept together; his snoring had been the catalyst, or perhaps the excuse – and shut the door behind her.

 

Her husband, meanwhile, had spent a not atypical day in the life of a corporate titan: five and a half hours in an aircraft, two and a half hours in airports, two and a half hours in cars travelling to and from airports, forty-five minutes in a meeting, and three and a half hours in one of Sydney's most expensive restaurants. He got home at 1.15 a.m.

On discovering his wife's body, Jonathon Bell did what he always did when things hadn't gone according to plan: he rang his lawyer.

 

When Tito Ihaka arrived slightly late for the Sunday morning meeting in the Auckland District Commander's office, at which he would have to explain why and how he came to discover Doug Yallop's body and then be interrogated and abused by Charlton and Firkitt, he was surprised to find it unoccupied.

“They're going to be late,” said McGrail's secretary. “Something's come up.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “What's that?”

She smirked, telegraphing the lie. “No idea.”

He nodded. “How long are they going to be?”

“No idea.”

“It didn't occur to you to let me know?” he asked. “Seeing as I am on holiday.”

“I've been flat out,” she said, paying more attention to her computer screen.

Ihaka thought about making her wish she'd called in sick, but he was in enough trouble as it was. Besides, scaring silly bitches out of their frillies was something else he was trying to give up. He walked away. She was still bleating that the ADC could be there any minute as the lift doors closed.

He was finishing his short black when he got the text to say the meeting had convened. He hailed the waitress to order another coffee.

 

It wasn't the confrontation Ihaka had expected. McGrail and Charlton were preoccupied with Lorna Bell's suicide, and Firkitt was on visible police presence duty in Paritai Drive.

Ihaka went through why he'd gone to see Yallop in the first place, what the Prof had to say on the subject of hitmen, and why he'd gone back for another go.

Charlton leaned back in his chair, examining the ceiling. “Do I detect a pattern here?” he said. “You talk to someone. Some time later you think of all the things you should have asked them and realize you'll have to go back for another bite at the cherry. Except by the time you get around to it, they're dead and therefore unable to answer the questions you should've put to them in the first place. I know Lilywhite asked to see you, but you sought Yallop out – which probably means your inability to follow orders got him killed.”

“Yallop was a piece of shit that we've been trying to nail for fucking years,” said Ihaka, “so excuse me if I don't have a cry. And if he was killed because someone saw me talking to him, then the question is: why me and why now? Because as you know bloody well, Inspector, over the years plenty of blokes around here have talked to him. I'd bet a month's pay Firkitt's been up to that café for a few chats. Who knows? You might've even been up there yourself. I
mean, that's what we do, isn't it – talk to people who might be able to provide useful information.”

McGrail swivelled in his chair, awaiting Charlton's response with an expectant expression.

Charlton decided the best form of defence was to pretend he hadn't been attacked. “Who knew you'd talked to him?”

“It was after four on a Tuesday afternoon,” said Ihaka. “The only other people there were a couple of young women, student types, and the guy making coffee.”

“You didn't tell anyone?”

“I understood the question the first time. Maybe you should focus on who Yallop discussed it with.”

Charlton shook his head. “Jesus, you've got a lot of attitude for someone who's been busted doing precisely what he was ordered not to do.” He turned to McGrail. “Sir, seeing Sergeant Ihaka seems incapable of letting this go, I'm going to have to ask you for an assurance that when I get to work tomorrow he won't be in this city, let alone in this building.”

McGrail nodded thoughtfully.

Charlton waited for verbal confirmation, but none was forthcoming. He got to his feet. “If I can make a suggestion, sir, you might want to personally escort Ihaka onto the plane and secure the doors. Now if you'll excuse me, we're pretty busy right now.”

“Never rains but it pours, eh?” said Ihaka.

Charlton eyed Ihaka coldly from the doorway. “Until we meet again. Let's see if we can make it a nice, round decade this time.”

“Busy's an understatement,” said McGrail when the door closed. “They're stretched to breaking point.”

“Boo hoo. What's the story with this suicide?”

McGrail told him what they'd learned so far: how Lorna Bell had spent her last few hours; that her distraught
husband wasn't aware of any reason why she'd take her own life; that there were no medical issues, although she'd recently undergone minor cosmetic surgery and had more planned; that she didn't leave a note.

“Pretty fucking weird, wouldn't you say?” said Ihaka.

“Which particular aspect?”

“Well, the haircut for a start.”

“I wouldn't attach too much significance to that,” said McGrail. “Think of it as a variation on clean-underwear syndrome.”

“She'd had cosmetic surgery and there was more in the pipeline, right? Are you really going to book yourself in for a nose job or arse suction or whatever if you're planning to pull the plug?”

“People are contrary,” said McGrail. “They think one thing one minute, and the exact opposite the next. I don't see it myself, but I've heard it said that the ability to hold contradictory views simultaneously is evidence of a sophisticated mind. Secondly, money wasn't an object, and when money's no object people find all sorts of daft things to spend it on. Thirdly, I dare say we wouldn't have to look too far to find a psychiatrist who'd tell us that cosmetic surgery is a manifestation of low self-esteem.”

“She didn't leave a note.”

“You've seen the studies, Sergeant. The percentages vary, but they all make the point that quite a few suicides don't.”

“Okay,” said Ihaka. “A guy gets the sack. His wife shoots through with the kids – turns out she's screwing his best mate. She convinces some dickhead social worker that he's a potential child molester, so he's denied access. If that bloke sticks a shotgun in his mouth, it's pretty fucking obvious what was on his mind, so who needs a note? This woman, her life's a bed of roses, yet suddenly she's out of here without a word of explanation.” He shook his head.
“If you ask me, she hadn't been building up to this: something came at her out of the blue, something she couldn't handle. So why didn't she tell her nearest and dearest?”

“The studies also conclude that the nearest and dearest sometimes withhold or destroy the note, whether to protect the victim's reputation or their own.”

“Doesn't that possibility worry you?”

“We're policemen,” said McGrail. “We like to know everything. The poor woman killed herself, and there's an end to the matter. If she did so because her husband was a swine, then he'll have to answer to a higher power than the law.”

“Some of us don't buy that.”

McGrail nodded. “Oh, I'm well aware of that. One thing about being a believer, it takes away the temptation to play God.”

 

At six o'clock that night Ihaka was at the airport swearing at an automatic ticketing machine. If he hadn't been wearing jandals, he might have been kicking it as well. His cellphone rang.

“Where are you?” asked McGrail.

“The airport.”

“Which one?”

“I haven't left yet,” said Ihaka. “And if these fucking machines don't give me a break, I probably never will.”

“Well, they are designed so that any fool can use them but, as we know, Sergeant, you're not just any fool.” McGrail waited for a reaction, but his little joke fell on stony ground. “Doesn't matter, though. You're not going.”

“I'm not?”

“There's been another murder,” said McGrail. “This time I was able to persuade Charlton that he could do with another pair of hands, even if they're yours.”

“Christ, how did you do that?”

“I simply pointed out that his people are overwhelmed and you're an experienced homicide detective who knows this city like the back of his hand. Besides, this has nothing to do with the Lilywhite case, so there's no reason why you and Firkitt should bump heads.”

“You still had to pull rank, right?”

“Charlton's too canny to let it get to that,” said McGrail. “But I may well have given the impression that I would've if I had to.”

“Do I have a say in this?”

“Of course.”

“The reason I ask is it seems to be taken for granted that I'll put my hand up for this gig.”

“Yes, I can see how it might look that way,” said McGrail. “All I can say is, I had to move fast. Obviously you're entirely at liberty to say this isn't my patch, this isn't my problem, I'm going back to the Wairarapa. It would be somewhat embarrassing for me, but that's not your problem either.”

“I'm normally immune to emotional blackmail,” said Ihaka. “In fact, it brings out the worst in me. On the other hand, I'm flattered that you're prepared to resort to it. I'll be in first thing.”

 

A jogger found the body, clad only in a pair of boxer shorts, in Cornwall Park. The deceased was a white male aged about thirty whose final hours had been as hellish as Lorna Bell's had been leisurely. Several of his fingers had been broken, there were cigarette burns all over his chest, and he'd been methodically beaten until his system couldn't take any more. It had “drugs” written all over it.

Ihaka was assigned a detective constable. Joel Pringle was twenty-five and had the look favoured by quite a few young city cops: gym-built, short, styled hair, moustache and beard set. Ihaka associated this look with guys who could
sit all day at their desks with sunglasses perched on the tops of their heads, who'd rather be seen as cool than capable even though cool cops were a contradiction in terms, who weren't as tough as they looked and nowhere near as tough as they thought they were.

He rang Van Roon. “Joel Pringle. What's the story?”

“He's a good enough soldier,” said Van Roon. “No Sherlock Holmes, obviously, but give him a job to do and he'll do it.”

“Okay, now let's have the bad news.”

“He's one of Firkitt's boys.”

“So he's a plant? Fucking great. Every move I make's going straight back to Firkitt and Charlton.”

“For Christ's sake, Tito, what did you expect?”

“At least I've got Beth Greendale. McGrail jacked that up when we were going to run the Lilywhite thing as a cold case.”

“Maybe she's McGrail's eyes and ears,” said Van Roon.

“Are you serious?”

“Look, mate, all I know is McGrail's a bit of a political animal these days,” said Van Roon. “It goes with the territory. I'm sure he's pleased to have you back because he knows you get the job done, but don't assume it's you and him against the rest. McGrail didn't get where he is today by not putting his own interests first.”

“I worked with the guy for thirteen years,” said Ihaka. “I think I can trust him.”

“Mate, you're not listening – he wasn't ADC then. Look, I don't know what's going on up there, but it sure as hell isn't business as usual. If I was in your shoes, I wouldn't trust anyone.”

Ihaka laughed. “Jesus, you should hear yourself. And to think you used to call
me
cynical.”

“You know what?” said Van Roon. “You were right to be.”