Red Herring (8 page)

“Pretty sure,” said Molloy.

“Any chance he’s skipped the country?” said Furst.

“Only if he walked,” said Molloy. “There are no sailings till Thursday.”

“What about Pan American?”

“Nothing till Thursday.”

“Maybe he swam.”

“Yeah,” said Molloy. “He’s known to the police. Public intoxication. They tried to get him for assault on a policeman too, but the charges were dropped.”

“Know why?”

“Not yet.”

Furst picked up the proof sheet and ran the magnifying glass over it again.

“What do you want me to do?” said Molloy.

“Keep looking.”

“It’s your money.”

“Spend it,” said Furst. “I want this feller found.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Molloy tried the front door of the RSC but it was locked. He stepped back and looked up. The building was in darkness. He lifted the letter slot and could hear the low rumble of conversation. A red wire from an electric buzzer ran up the side of the door frame and through a hole drilled in the wall. Molloy pushed the button. He lit a smoke.

The letter slot opened. “Bugger off,” a voice said. “We’re closed.”

“Bones, it’s me, Johnny.”

Locks turned and the door cracked open. Bones squeezed out and looked up and down Francis Street. “All right, Johnny,” he said, stepping back. “In you come.”

A heavy blackout curtain was hanging across the alcove.

“Bloody hell,” said Molloy. “Expecting the
Luftwaffe
?”

“It’s no joke,” said Bones. “The police are threatening to come down hard. Committee’s even talking about restricting this place to legal hours till things blow over. Plus the jokers from the Dublin Club. We might have to clear out the chairs and tables for a bit. Just one step away from the vertical swill. Bloody hell.” He bolted the door.

The room was full of men talking in low tones. Smoke hung above them like cumulus. Tim was back on deck. Molloy ordered an eight.

“Really sorry to hear about Paddy, Tim,” said Molloy, reaching across the bar to shake Tim’s hand. “Bones told me.”

“Oh, thanks, Johnny,” said Tim. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a bugger.”

“Are you going to have a service of any sort?”

“Well, he’ll be buried over there in Korea somewhere, of course,” said Tim. “In one of them military cemeteries, I’d think.” He took a deep breath. “We’re having a do at St Joseph’s on Friday morning. It’ll just be small, Johnny, don’t feel you have to.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, Tim,” said Molloy. “Paddy was a good bloke.”

“He wasn’t a bad little bugger, was he?” said Tim, concentrating hard on the pour, some movement in his chin. “Good halfback.”

“Bones and I were saying the same thing. Would’ve played for Auckland if it hadn’t been for the war.”

“The Kiwis even,” said Tim. “That’s what Scotty McClymont reckoned.”

“He’d know,” said Molloy. “I’m going to drop in and say hello to your mum tomorrow.”

“She’d like that, Johnny.”

Tim slid the beer across.

“Cheers,” said Molloy, putting a shilling on the bar.

Tim leaned forward. “Strange thing, the same day she heard he’d copped it, she got a postcard from him. Sent a couple of weeks before Christmas.” Tim drew words in the air. “Ended with something like, ‘Please don’t worry, Mum, and lots of love. Paddy.’” His eyes filled with tears. “And in her other hand she’s holding the ‘Regret to inform’ telegram from Fred fuckin’ Jones, pardon my French.”

“Hell,” said Molloy, at a loss.

“Hell’s right,” said Tim, blowing his nose into a tartan handkerchief. “Ah, well. Offer it up, as the nuns used to say. Anyway.” He got change from the cash register. “Friday at ten. But don’t feel obliged.”

“Very good,” said Molloy. “I’ll be there.”

Bones put a tray of dirty glasses and ashtrays on the counter next to where Molloy was standing.

“Billy still here?” said Molloy.

“Got the last tram,” said Bones. He lowered his voice. “Maori boy in the corner’s looking for you, though.”

“Where?”

“Behind me,” said Bones. “By the radio.”

Molloy looked at the reflection in the mirror above the bar. “How did he get in?” he asked. “All those locks and buzzers?”

“Size of the bastard, who was going to stop him?”

The Maori had one hand on a leaner and was sipping beer from a five-ounce glass.

“G’day,” said Molloy. “Johnny Molloy.”

The big man put down his glass. It was an eight, Molloy realised, but in his big fist it looked like a five.

“Sunny Day,” he said.

Day had a thick neck and broad shoulders. His skin was dark and his eyes were pale green. His nose was smeared across his face, brows held together by scar tissue. There were faded blue swallows tattooed on the webbing of both hands. His fists looked like hammers, knuckles large and misshapen and several shades of red.

“You’re looking for a cobber of mine,” he said. “Frank O’Flynn?”

“Am I now? What makes you say that?”

“Auckland’s a small place,” said Sunny, hooking a thumb. “He wants to talk to you, too. Car’s out the back.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sunny’s Plymouth was parked across the other side of the yard. The passenger door faced away from the RSC and was shadowed by a dark line of macrocarpas. There was a figure in the passenger seat.

Sunny opened the back door. “In you hop,” he said with a mock salute. As Molloy lifted his arm to take off his hat Sunny punched him hard in the side below the ribcage. Molloy’s world turned red. Sunny spun him round and punched him with his other fist, this time in the solar plexus.

Molloy’s legs gave way and he slid down the side of the car, toppled to his knees, and pitched slowly forward onto the bitumen, trying to suck in air through a pinhole.

The passenger door opened. “Need a hand, Sunny?” said a high-pitched voice.

“No. I think it’s under control, thanks, Lofty.”

Sunny squatted down and waited for Molloy’s diaphragm to stop cramping.

“What do you want with Frank O’Flynn?” he said, eventually.

“Who?” said Molloy, somehow.

Sunny grabbed Molloy’s hair, wrenched his head back and slammed his face into the ground. He rolled him over, picked him up by the lapels and sat him down against the left front wheel. Molloy slumped forward with his chin on his chest, his ribcage feeling
cracked and on fire. Sunny’s actions seemed effortless, as though Molloy weighed nothing at all. And Molloy was not a small man.

“One more time,” said Sunny. “What do you want with Frank O’Flynn?”

“He’s been cited as secondary party in a divorce suit,” said Molloy, the words bubbling out around the blood that was filling his mouth and dribbling down his chin. “This solicitor wants me to get a photograph, that’s all.”

“Go on. What solicitor?”

“Furst,” said Molloy, grasping at straws. “Something Furst.”

“Who’s he with?”

“He’s got a practice down the line,” said Molloy, hooking his thumb in a southerly direction.

“Down the line?” said Sunny. “Can you be more specific?”

“Napier,” said Molloy, the first place he thought of.

“Napier. That’s good. I know people in Napier.”

A dog barked.

“Hey, you fellas! What’s going on?” said a beery voice.

The passenger door opened.

“Bugger off, Grandad,” said Lofty.

“What did I say, Lofty?” said Sunny.

“No, Sunny, I was just . . .” Lofty’s voice trailed off. The door closed.

“Is that young Molloy?” said Davey Coulson. The old boy had both hands on his walking stick and was swaying on the spot in a slow, circular direction as though he was churning butter. His fox terrier stood stiff-legged beside him, furious.

“Is that you, Davey?” said Molloy.

“It is,” said Coulson. He nodded towards the macrocarpas. “I was just going for a, you know, a piddle in the trees there,” he said. “The
latrine gets pretty busy this time of night and I don’t like to be rushed and that annoys people, banging away on the door and that, so.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, I seen you fellas here and I thought, jeez, that doesn’t sound too good. Can’t see who in the dark, but I could hear someone gasping away like billy-o. And then I seen it was you, Johnny. You know, once me eyes adjusted?” He paused. “Everything all right, son?”

“Good as gold, thanks, Davey,” said Molloy. “Got a bit carried away on the booze and had a big spew all over this poor bloke’s white sidewalls. But we’re all right now, aren’t we, Mr Day?” He leaned to one side and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

“I think we’re putting two and two together, yep,” said Sunny.

Coulson’s dog growled.

“Geddown, Skip!” said Coulson. “Take no notice of him. He’s a foxy.” Coulson squinted at Sunny. “You’re a Maori, aren’t you? Foxies don’t seem to care for you fellas too much. Funny thing.” He pointed. “I grew up on the Hokianga. Knew a fair few Maoris. Good people, most of them.
Ka pai
this and that and so forth. But foxies seem to have this animus towards them.” He gestured vaguely. “Any of your people from up that way?”

Sunny paused. “Not from up that way, no,” he said. “More down that way and across.”

“I see,” said Coulson, after a moment. “Ah, well. Better go and, you know.” He pointed towards the tree line. “I’ll see you later, Johnny.”

“See you later, Davey,” said Molloy.

They watched Coulson and Skip walk away.

Sunny shook his head. “Jesus Christ almighty,” he said. He turned back to Molloy, his voice low. “I’ll check up on this Furst fella,” he said. “Secondary party in a divorce, eh? O’Flynn’s a lady’s man, that’s
for sure. He’s called Errol O’Flynn sometimes, so could be.” He put his hand under Molloy’s chin and jerked his head up. “But if you’re making it up, by crikey you’ll be sorry.” He dropped Molloy’s head and wiped blood and snot from his hand onto the detective’s jacket. “Meanwhile, stay away from Frank. I find you sniffing around him again, you’re dog tucker.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Molloy woke up feeling like he had spun out of control at seventy miles an hour and crashed into a wall. He was lying on his bed, on top of the blanket, in his shirt and underpants. He couldn’t remember how he got there. He couldn’t remember getting undressed. There was blood on his shirt and the buttons were missing. He brought his hand up to his face. There was dry blood caked on his chin, and the tip of his nose felt as if it had been scraped off.

He tried to sit up but the effort made him squeak with pain. He lay back, counted to ten, rolled to his left, ended up on the floor on his knees.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said out loud, not praying.

He put his hands on the edge of the bed and heaved himself up. His jacket and strides were in a pile on the floor, ripped and bloodied. He couldn’t see his hat.

He stood. On his wall there was a small square mirror with bevelled edges hanging by a thin chain. He looked at his face. What a mess. His nose and chin were bloody and lines of dry blood connected the two. He scraped gently at the scab. Parts of it came away in large black flakes and fresh blood appeared immediately. He took a handkerchief from his drawer, dipped it in an enamel bowl and cleaned himself up as much as he could.

He took his other pair of strides from a hanger and put them on, wincing over each inch. He put on his socks and shoes, took off his shirt and singlet and got clean ones from his drawer. It took ten minutes. There was a knock on the door.

“Mr Molloy?” said Mrs Philpott. “Are you decent? Someone on the telephone for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs Philpott. There in a tick.”

He opened the door.

Mrs Philpott’s hand shot up to her mouth. “Goodness!” she said. “Have you been in an accident?”

“Oh,” said Molloy. “Bit of a dust-up at the RSC last night. I got between a couple of fellas.”

“Well, don’t look to me for sympathy,” she said. “You know how I feel about drink.”

“Drink wasn’t the problem, Mrs Philpott,” he said. “It was politics.”

“Even worse,” she said. “There’s aspirin in the cupboard under the sink in the bathroom. I suggest you take two with a glass of water.”

The telephone was on an occasional table in the hallway of the boarding house.

Molloy picked up the receiver. “Are you there?”

“Is that you, Johnny?” said Toomey.

“Hello, Pat.”

“Regarding your cobber, O’Flynn,” said the policeman. “There’s been a development.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Molloy rang the Hotel Auckland and spoke to Furst. His car was in the garage, his hat on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He must have driven home. He stopped in front of the hotel. Furst was standing on the footpath. The American flicked away his cigarette and got into the front seat.

“Holy Moly,” he said when he saw Molloy’s face. “The hell happened to you?”

“Fella suggested I stay away from O’Flynn,” said Molloy. “Conversation went from there.”

“I’d say it did!” said Furst.

“His name’s Sunny Day,” said Molloy. “He picked the Irishman up from the boarding house last night.”

“You don’t say,” said Furst, taking a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket. “Smoke?”

Molloy shook his head. He put his arm out to indicate and pulled away from the footpath.

“Okay,” said Furst, lighting up. “Tell me again what the cop said.”

“His exact words were, ‘Frank O’Flynn has taken his life, God rest his soul’.”

“God rest his soul, my ass,” said Furst, throwing his match out the window.

It took an hour and a half to drive the mostly gravel road to Piha. As they rumbled down the steep hill towards Lion Rock, Molloy wondered if the car would make it back up.

He parked beside a police car. There was a small crowd of people on the beach. A uniformed sergeant and a young constable were standing with half a dozen locals, all of them pointing in various directions but generally out to sea. The sergeant saw Molloy and Furst and came over to join them.

“Jeez, Johnny!” he said. “What happened to you?”

“Someone had a go at the RSC last night,” said Molloy.