Death on Demand (31 page)

“A couple of months ago his sister Eve, who'd never given up hope of a family reunion, ran into someone who'd seen her brother in Sydney, wrapped around an Auckland-based TV star. She hired a private investigator to track her brother down, which he did, but Arden still didn't want anything to do with her. By this stage the investigator's worked out why all these middle-aged women in headscarves and dark glasses are trooping in and out of Arden's apartment. After he'd told Eve about it, he realized he's sitting on a goldmine because some of these women would far rather fork out hush money than have their husbands find out they're getting a seeing-to from a male prostitute every second Thursday afternoon. So he put the hard word on a couple, one of whom went and killed herself.”

Bell groaned and turned away. Ihaka talked to his back.

“Her husband finds the body with a note and some incriminating photos. He jumps to the conclusion that
the guy in the photos, the gigolo, is the blackmailer, and wants to make him suffer. Fortunately, he's got a mate in Paremoremo who owes him big-time. Among other things, he's paying for protection so his mate doesn't end up as some big boy's fuck-toy. So he slips his mate a photo of Arden and asks him to get his gang buddies on the job. Maybe they weren't meant to go all the way, but these guys are animals – overkill's their standard operating procedure. Whatever, they get hold of Arden and bash him to death.

“The PI sees all this. He's been tailing Arden, hoping to add a few more frisky wives to his portfolio. He shoots over to Arden's apartment to grab his laptop in case he kept records of his clients. Then he realizes there's a giant fly in the ointment: the sister. When she finds out what's happened to her brother, she'll tell the cops everything. There goes the goldmine, not to mention his freedom. So he lures Eve up here, probably by saying her brother's agreed to a meeting, and does to her pretty much what the animals did to Arden, figuring we'd be only too happy to pin both murders on them, and they'd be too dumb to talk their way out of the one they didn't commit.”

Bell turned back to face Ihaka. He was moist-eyed, stunned and afraid.

“You set the dogs on the wrong man, Mr Bell.” Ihaka turned and walked away. “The blackmailer's name is Grant Hayes,” he said over his shoulder. “He's in the Yellow Pages.”

 

Grant Hayes had an office above a chemist on Karangahape Road. Ihaka walked in at 9.05, too early for his secretary, a hotted-up peroxide blonde. She was the woman in Booth's photos, the face Beth Greendale had spotted in the Langham's CCTV footage.

“Mr Hayes is busy right now,” she said.

Ihaka showed his ID. “He'll see me.” He made a show of tilting his head and peering at her. “You look very familiar. Have we met?”

The secretary giggled. “Some people think I look like Christina Aguilera.”

“That can't be it,” said Ihaka. “I wouldn't know Christina Aguilera if I ran over her. I'm sure it'll come to me. I never forget a face.”

Her artificial half-smile blinked on and off. She pressed the intercom button. “Grant, there's a guy from the police here. A Mr…?”

“Ihaka.” He was already in Hayes's office, closing the door behind him.

Hayes was at a kitset desk, drinking coffee from a paper cup and doing the crossword. He didn't seem surprised or ruffled by Ihaka's appearance. “Detective Sergeant Ihaka,” he said with a salesman's smile. “What brings you to my humble workplace?”

Ihaka examined him, searching for a sign. There wasn't one. Hayes looked like a normal, well-adjusted guy. After he'd beaten Eve to death, he probably went home and watched a wildlife documentary.

“I'm here to do you a favour,” said Ihaka.

“Then you're doubly welcome. It's been a while since anyone did.”

“This is a biggie. It'll save your life.”

Hayes shuffled his masks, settling on good-natured puzzlement. “Excuse me?”

“Jonathon Bell knows you tried to blackmail his wife, which of course was what made her kill herself. He knows he sent those cavemen after the wrong guy. If you want to die of old age, you'd better come with me. We're the only ones who can protect you now.”

The frown lines on Hayes's forehead deepened, but his expression didn't waver. “I'm sorry, Sergeant,” he said, half-suppressing a snort of amusement at the sheer zaniness of it all. “I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about.”

“Suit yourself,” said Ihaka. “But I'll spell it out one more time anyway, because it's important you understand just how deep in the shit you are. Bell knows you sent his wife over the edge. Pretty soon The Firm is going to know you copycatted them so their guys would get pinned for Eve. How do you think they'll react? Shrug their shoulders? Say something like ‘Hey, smart play, dude. Respect'? Or hunt you down and nail your dick to your forehead? I know what my money's on. You're not going to last on the outside, so if you want to stay alive, you better come down to Central and lay it all out – Eve, the blackmail, the works.”

Hayes chuckled ruefully, shaking his head, like someone trying to extricate himself from a social ambush without resorting to rudeness. “This is just so out there, I don't know what to say.”

“Okay,” said Ihaka briskly. “You want to tell me who's your next of kin?”

“You know, that's not particularly funny,” said Hayes. “If there's nothing else, perhaps you should leave.”

“There's just no helping some people,” said Ihaka. “But you know what? I'm kind of glad you didn't take me up on it. It'll save us a lot of frigging around, that's for sure.”

As Ihaka reached for the door handle, Hayes said, “Just as a matter of interest, what would give Bell the idea I'm the blackmailer?”

Ihaka retraced his steps. He leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk. “Bell knows,” he said softly, “because I told him.”

This time John Scholes didn't bother pretending that he was pleased to see Tito Ihaka.

He rounded on the guards who'd escorted him to the superintendent's office. “What the fuck's all this then?” he said, more like a high-handed employer than a convict. “I've got nothing to say to this bloke. Where's my lawyer? We're meant to be having a meeting.”

Ihaka sat down at the meeting table. “Thanks, fellas,” he said to the guards. “You can leave us to it.” As the door closed, he told Scholes to sit down.

“Fuck you,” said Scholes. “I don't want to talk to you. I'm up before the parole board tomorrow, and I need to have a run-through with my lawyer.”

“As we speak,” said Ihaka, “your chances of getting in front of the parole board are somewhere between fuck all and zero. If you don't sit the fuck down, they'll be less than zero.”

Scholes advanced in sullen silence. He sat down opposite Ihaka, tilted the chair back, clasped his hands behind his head, and began whistling softly. Ihaka recognized it as the theme song from the old TV comedy
Dad's Army
, ‘Who Do You Think You Are Kidding, Mr Hitler?'

“Why all the drama?” asked Ihaka. “I thought parole was going to be a rollover, you being a model prisoner and all.”

Scholes's look got dirtier. “Apparently your colleagues out West Auckland, being a right bunch of cunts, have muddied the waters. But you already knew that, didn't you?”

“You know, the funny thing is, a few days ago I was thinking about intervening on your behalf, maybe even having West Auckland's submission taken off the table. It just goes to show, timing is everything. Now we know why your boys killed Arden Black and we know who killed Black's sister, so you don't have a lot of leverage.”

“Is that right?” said Scholes, the habitual half-smile back in place.

“It was a hit, wasn't it? And a well-paid one, I bet. Set up by Mark Wills.”

The half-smile didn't waver; the eyebrows didn't twitch.

“Not quite the perfect crime, you'd have to say,” said Ihaka. “We know who made the approach, we know who paid for it, the guys who did it are behind bars and, to top it all off, they smashed up the wrong bloke. I believe the technical term is a goat-fuck.”

He leaned back, grinning. “Is that your poker face, Johnny, or have you just shat your pants?”

Scholes's eyes widened fractionally. “Look, this is all very interesting, not that I've got a fucking clue what you're on about, but if it's all the same to you I really would like some time with my lawyer.”

“Let me ask you a question. What do you reckon the parole board's view will be if we tell them beforehand that you're about to be charged with conspiracy to commit murder? I know they sometimes get a bit of stick for being a soft touch, but I think they'd baulk at that, don't you? In fact, coming on top of Waitemata's submission, I'd say it'd be a bit of a game-changer.”

“Conspiracy to commit murder?” Scholes rolled his eyes. “Do me a favour. That one ain't going to fly, Sergeant. You know it. I know it.”

“Admittedly it wouldn't be a walk in the park—”

“Ah. Is that the voice of common sense I hear?”

“—but it looks like we'll have to go down that route to make sure we nail Cropper and Parks. We don't have a motive otherwise.”

Scholes sat up straight, folding his arms over his belly. “That wouldn't be an issue if they pleaded guilty.”

“Now there's a thought.”

“Consider it done. So I take it I can rely on your positive input at the parole hearing, Sergeant?”

“Shit no.”

Scholes flushed crimson, snarling unintelligibly.

“Time to get real, Johnny. Getting those apes to plead guilty would be helpful, but it's also in your interests. If I'm going to take the heat for springing you, I'm going to need a shitload more than that. Here's the deal and it's non-negotiable. You tell me exactly what happened to Blair Corvine, and I'll get you out of here.”

“What about the conspiracy charge?”

“Well, if we're going to go after you, we'll also have to go after your client. That won't be my decision.”

“As I said before, you and I both know what that decision's going to be, seeing as who the client is.” Ihaka's reaction prompted a fat man's chuckle. “Oh yes, Mr Ihaka. See, I insist on knowing who I'm dealing with, and that Wills geezer – well, put it this way, he's neither strong nor silent.”

“You might be hearing from the client again.”

“Oh, why's that?”

“Cropper and Parks actually got the right bloke,” said Ihaka. “It was your client who got it wrong. He knows that now. And he knows who he should've had taken out.”

“How come?”

Ihaka shrugged. “Maybe a little bird told him.”

Scholes whistled. “My, my, you're playing for keeps, aren't you?”

“Now this will interest you, Johnny. The reason we thought Cropper and Parks killed Black's sister is that the guy we're talking about, the guy who did kill her, saw them do Black and tried to copy it. You see what I'm saying? He went out of his way to make us think your boys killed her.”

“Fucking cheek.”

“I didn't think you'd be too thrilled. So do we have a deal?”

“Well, that depends,” said Scholes. “I can't tell you who ratted out Corvine because I don't know. But I can certainly tell you a thing or two about Doug Yallop.”

“The Prof? What's he got to do with it?”

“Oh, quite a lot, I think you'll find. But I can't do it all for you. After all, only one of us is a trained detective, and it ain't me.”

“Fair enough.”

“It was Yallop who got Jerry Spragg duffed up. He called it, he paid for it. Spragg came in here like he was fucking Al Capone, going on about how he'd rumbled Corvine and turned him into Swiss cheese and bragging about his connections, which I took to mean he had one of your lot in his pocket. I guess word got around that he was talking too much because next thing I've got the Prof come to see me.”

“He wanted Spragg put away?”

“Oh yeah, he wanted him put away all right, but I drew the line at that. Someone gets topped, all hell breaks loose. Everything tightens up, the screws start going by the book.” Scholes's eyes twinkled. “I mean, it's bad enough being in here without getting treated like some kind of criminal. So we settled on giving Spragg a hiding. A proper fucking hiding, mind, not a touch-up, a very clear message that he
should keep his gob shut. Now Spragg wasn't the full quid to begin with, but he was fucking sixpence in the pound after the lads were finished with him. So Yallop got what he wanted after all – and on the cheap, which pissed me off more than somewhat, I can tell you.”

“You're sure Yallop was acting for a cop?”

“As sure as eggs are eggs,” said Scholes. “And in return for you getting me out of here, I'll tell you why.”

“Go on.”

“If I tell you now, what's to stop you welshing on the deal?”

“I don't work that way, Johnny.”

“There's always a first time.”

“I'm looking at the big picture here,” said Ihaka. “In the long run I don't gain anything by shafting you.”

“The big picture, eh?” Scholes nodded approvingly. “I like that. People who look at the big picture are few and far between, as I'm sure you know, Mr Ihaka. All right, I'll take you at your word, one big-picture man to another. I never liked that fucking Yallop – all the bollocks about being some kind of criminal mastermind – so when he was planning and packaging jobs and selling them to the highest bidder, I didn't want a bar of it. A few years ago I began to detect a pattern: all Yallop's jobs, the lads who pulled them ended up either getting collared or ripped off.”