Starlight Peninsula (27 page)

‘The gods …’

‘Call it the gods or fate or chance. Look at the sky out there. Look at the universe. Does it care? No.’

Eloise looked at the red and black sky over the dog park. A phrase came to her. ‘It’s riddled with light,’ she said, sitting up. She went to the shelves and found a book.

‘This was Arthur’s. Yeats.’ She consulted the index, turned the pages. ‘It’s a poem called “The Cold Heaven”.’

‘I don’t know any poetry,’ Simon said.

‘Neither do I, really.’ She sat down beside him.

‘I took the blame …’ Simon repeated.

‘Out of all sense and reason.’

They said nothing for a while. The sky was changing from red to orange, the first faint tints of light green, almost blue, appearing.

‘So Arthur read poetry.’

‘Some. I never used to read anything, myself. I just watched TV, went to movies. He was scandalised by that. I do read now, thanks to him.’

She let the book drop and said in a tranced voice, ‘You understand. I loved Arthur. I was angry he used our private lives as material. I was hurt by his ruthless side, his secretiveness. But the way you talk, you make it sound as if nothing’s anyone’s fault. As if no one should be blamed for anything.’

Simon rested his arm over his eyes again. ‘People have fewer choices than they think. Mostly they’re just reacting to what’s happening.’

‘But a criminal, a murderer, say, has choices. Decides to kill.’

‘Does he? Can one human being really change his circumstances? Where he was born, who his parents are, what they do to him, how he grows up, what random events life throws at him? How he reacts in any given moment? I don’t know.’

‘You’re saying we’re all animals.’

He lifted his arm, turned to her. ‘You told me yourself, Eloise. We’re all dogs.’

‘Look.’ She pointed. They could see a man walking along the edge of the creek, crossing the wooden bridge, following the path through the flax bushes. ‘It’s Nick. My neighbour.’

Simon stood up. ‘I’d better go. You should get some sleep.’

‘It’s too late. I have to go to work.’ She followed him to the front door. ‘Will you come back here?’

He looked down at her, expressionless. ‘Sure.’

‘I won’t be able to live here much longer. My husband wants to sell the house. I have to move.’

‘Goodbye, Eloise.’

‘Wait, I’ve just remembered. You’ve got no car.’

‘I’ll walk up to the main road and get a cab.’

‘Call one from here.’

‘No, I’d like to walk for a while. Clear my head.’

She watched him walk away up the peninsula road. There was a tapping sound; she locked the front door and went back through the house.

Nick was on the deck, his face close to the glass. She opened the ranch slider.

‘I saw the light on in the kitchen. You’re up early,’ he said.

‘Did you find them?’

‘Yes.’

‘In one piece?’

‘Both alive, fortunately. Relieved to be found. They were twenty metres off the track. In the bush, sense of direction’s the first thing to go.’

His South African accent was soft, pleasing. He sounded exhausted. She said, ‘Congratulations. Would you like to come in?’

She started making coffee, but by the time it was ready he had fallen sideways and was asleep on the sofa. She covered him with a rug.

It was nearly time to get ready for work. She sat down, drinking her coffee. Her temples were pulsing with weariness. Tiny sparks flashed at the edges of her eyes.

Nick, sleeping beside her, smelled of sweat and aftershave.

She went through the open door onto the deck and looked out over the dog park. The owners were clustered on the grass, the dogs speeding out from them, circling, running back. She watched a man throwing a ball, the dog tearing in pursuit, its body rippling as it raced over the grass. Nearby, on the edge of the creek, an old man led the way for an ancient, puffing corgi. The mangrove leaves shone in the morning light, the flax bushes quietly rattled, and all along the peninsula the early sun picked out delicate detail: the thin shadows of the cabbage trees, the tui high in the flame tree.

In the corner of Eloise’s eye there was a squiggle of light that
mirrored the rippling effect of the running dog. It was like looking at her own thought, an electrical spark arcing along the neural pathway. At first it was only obliquely visible; if she turned towards it, it moved away. The ripple of brightness formed itself into a question.

The question was coming at her, out of a sky riddled with light. It was burning as it came nearer, hurting her eyes.

‘Okay. Tell me about the Mad Gasser.’

Scott had his feet up on the desk, a coffee in his hand.

Eloise consulted her iPad. ‘The Mad Gasser of Mattoon, also known as the Anesthetic Prowler, Fritz the Phantom Anesthetist, and the Mad Gasser of Roanoke. Widely reported to have made holes in people’s windows and shot poison gas into their houses, causing nausea, faintness and vomiting. Investigations concluded that many of the complaints arose as a result of reports that generated mass hysteria …’

She paused, frowned. ‘Scott?’

‘Mmm?’

‘You felt the shocks. They weren’t mass hysteria.’

‘You and I aren’t hysterical types.’

‘You mean other people are?’

‘Take Selena: the woman was hysterical the whole time.’

‘You refuse to take this seriously!’

‘Can you blame me? By the way, did I show you Thee’s photos? She emailed me a whole bunch. Have a look.’

He took his feet off the desk and brought up pictures on his big computer screen, mostly photos of Iris’s birthday party: Scott looking harassed, children running amok in the trashed house, a shot of the Sparkler and Iris jumping through a sprinkler on the lawn.

‘That niece of yours, Rachel Margery, she’s a bit of an old soul.’

Eloise looked at the crowded pictures, the domesticity, the careless, beautiful, romping children. She felt something, what would you call it? An ache, a pang.

She rested her chin on her fist and said irritably, ‘What does that even mean, an old soul?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You mean, she’s kind of a powerful child.’

‘Yeah. She’s intelligent. And confident. Very real and present.’

He clicked through the pictures. ‘Here’s the opera,
Marriage of Figaro
, look, the Hallwrights with that fundraising dragon, what’s her name, Lady Trish Ellison. Hamish Dark looking like Nosferatu.’

‘Nice one of you and Mariel.’

‘Mmm. I’m not sure about the suit. Do you like that one?’

They looked at pictures of Scott. His expressions, the dial, as always, slightly turned up: rapt attention, joyfulness, frowning seriousness. There was Hamish Dark listening to the Sinister Doormat while studiously ‘keeping a straight face’. The Hallwrights in conversation with a red-faced woman, Roza Hallwright looking beyond her, across the room.

Scott’s phone rang, he answered.

Eloise went on clicking through the photos. There was one of herself, flushed, raising a wine glass and looking on as Scott talked, a
group of women eyeing him. Another of the Hallwrights among a circle of the invited guests: an actor, a DJ, a TV executive, Jack Anthony. One of the film director, Sir Peter Jackson. A shot of a plate-glass window with city lights shining in the darkness behind it. Leaning against the glass, Mariel Hartfield and Simon Lampton, both talking on their phones, so close their elbows were nearly touching.

‘Hartmann’s here,’ Scott said.

‘Why?’

‘He wants to talk about the interview. I should have told him we’re busy with the Phantom Gasser. Can you go down to reception for him, E. I’ve got a headache. Hartmann gives me a headache. He gives me mass hysteria. I can’t understand what he’s talking about half the time.’

‘You need Fritz the Phantom Anesthetist. No, you need some Panadol. Go and take some drugs. I’ll see what he wants.’

‘Thanks, E, you’re a pal.’

She went down to reception. Hartmann was leaning against the desk, conferring with Chad Loafer. Eloise paused, struck by the sight of Hine, the receptionist, looking minuscule next to Hartmann’s giant frame.

‘Eloise Hay,’ Hartmann said, turning with a smile that struck her as genuine, even sweet. Tossing his scarf over one shoulder, hitching up his pants, he told Loafer impressively, ‘Chad. Wait here.’

‘You look pleased about something,’ Eloise said.

He came close, squinted down at her. ‘I have something for you.’

‘Okay. I’ll take you up to Scott.’

The lift doors closed on Chad Loafer, on Hine. They were alone in the metal box. Hartmann said quietly, without looking at her, ‘You have an office? Let’s go there before I speak to Scott.’

They went to her room — more a nook than an office — and closed the door. Hartmann’s bulk filled the small space. She could hear the rasp of his effortful breathing. He took some sheets of paper out of his bag and held them up.

‘I have located historical exchanges, mostly email and Facebook messaging. I will not tell you how I got them, except to say an expert friend accessed them from a website that had suffered a denial of service attack, leaving it vulnerable for a short time. I’m going to show them to you because you led me to them.’

She reached out, but he held the sheets back.

‘You have a personal interest in what’s recorded here. But I want to make something clear between us. I found the material — actually my friend did — so I am going to retain the right to use it in the way I see fit.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I want to decide how to use the material. I want your agreement on this.’

She felt like Scott: unable to understand what he was talking about.

He seemed to be waiting for a reply. When she didn’t say anything he went on, ‘Eloise, I think you want to see what I’ve found. But I will only show it to you if you agree that I control it, and you keep this conversation between us. No telling anyone about it, or about the material. If you don’t agree, I won’t show it to you.’

‘Okay …’ She thought about it. ‘How can I agree if I don’t know what you’re talking about?’

‘It’s your choice. Agree now, or I go away and we don’t speak any more.’

She folded her arms. ‘What if I agree now, then look at the stuff and change my mind — decide I do want to tell someone about it?’

‘You won’t want to do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It wouldn’t be in your interests.’

‘Is that a threat? You mean you’ll set your tiny bodyguard on me?’

He smiled, showing his wicked little teeth. ‘No threats. Just a gentleperson’s agreement.’ He held out his hand. ‘I am only going to
show it to you, not give it to you. I’m not going to leave you today with any proof. So if you wanted to talk about this material, you’d have to work pretty hard to convince people it really exists. Without proof, you face a lot of trouble. Also a defamation suit. I’m sorry but that’s the only way I can proceed. You want to see what I’ve got, don’t you?’

‘So, let me get this straight. I’ve apparently helped you to find something, but you’re going to keep it all for yourself.’

‘Precisely, Eloise. Sorry. But
you
would not have been able to find it.’

He was holding out his hand. She shook it.

‘These are exchanges between Roza Hallwright and Mr Ed Miles, at the time they were on holiday at the Hallwright residence, Rotokauri. They are exchanges made before people knew this kind of messaging is not secure — that it can never be secure. They thought they were speaking in absolute privacy.

‘Let’s sit down, and I will show you. See, here is the date, the time, and here are the names of the pair talking. Roza and Ed.’

Hartmann said, ‘The police commissioner, you probably remember, was the late Rodney Quilliam. He and Miles were at the dawn service at Waitangi that year. I have found an exchange between Quilliam and a third party that suggests serious interference by Miles.’

‘So Miles told him to stop looking into Arthur’s death.’

‘Miles saw it could turn into a tabloid thing, Arthur ringing Hallwright’s wife, then dying. Police investigating, maybe finding out what questions Arthur was asking her. It could have fuelled conspiracy theories, right. So he told Quilliam to act. Miles went outside his ministerial powers. He wasn’t allowed to interfere in police operational matters.’

‘I had no idea Arthur talked to Roza Hallwright.’

‘I guess he got her worried. Asking about her past, talking to some woman she knew. Maybe he found out some bad stuff. These politicians are so alert to the possibility of bad publicity, they will dampen anything down if they can. Even if they haven’t actually done anything wrong. It’s about perception. Miles would have made less of a problem for himself if he had been less proactive. But he had the boss’s wife nagging him to do something. See his line,
No need to feel you owe me
. Meaning, You owe me. Big time.’

‘Oh, Arthur.’ Eloise closed her eyes. Why did he have to go so far? To think of him, spinning a line, somehow luring Roza Hallwright to
a phone in the compound, asking her about personal stuff, about her past. Perhaps he really was ruthless.

She said, ‘He used to get obsessed with ideas, with projects. No wonder he was being secretive. He would have known I’d object to him ringing her. The prime minister’s wife, for God’s sake. I would have said, You can’t do that.’

Her phone pinged. Scott sending a text:
where are you?

She said, ‘This shows Miles didn’t know anything about Arthur’s death, and neither did Roza Hallwright. They were only worried how it would look.’

Hartmann moved to the window and looked out, his hands on his hips. He said, ‘You can see why I smiled when my friend gave me this material. It answers your question, Eloise. It tells you: these people did not hurt your friend. He probably just had an accident. And it answers my question: does Ed Miles have an Achilles heel?’

Eloise thought about this. ‘I had a file belonging to Arthur. It wasn’t much, just photos mostly, but there were notes he’d written about the people staying at Rotokauri. I hid it, not very well, in the boot of my car, and someone’s taken it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. It’s been stolen.’

‘Also, you said you were being followed.’

‘I thought I was, although it seemed so fanciful. Unbelievable. But now someone’s taken Arthur’s file, maybe I wasn’t imagining it.’

‘I don’t see why you would be imagining it. It is like I said, people are not as independent as they think. Just like the herd at the waterhole, suddenly pricking up the ears and moving: they start responding to outside forces, moving in the same direction at the same time. When you started to ask questions, other people started asking, too. Who knows what signals come from the universe.’

‘Signals?’

‘People want the same thing you’ve been looking for: the same information.’

‘I don’t know about all that. The universe …’

‘Jack Dance, for one, will have started asking questions about the guy who’s trying to take his job: Ed Miles. And about his super-rich backers, Mr and Mrs Soon Empire.’

Hartmann folded the sheets of paper and put them in his bag.

Eloise said, ‘Why don’t you give me a copy?’

‘Finders keepers,’ he said.

‘Right.’

He put his big hand on her arm. ‘Do you understand, Eloise, if you tell anyone about this, all you’ll do is attract unwelcome attention. You will make people angry with you. And you will have no proof to back your claim. Zero gain for you.’

‘So
give
me the proof.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘That would not be in
my
interests.’ Hartmann stood up and held out his hand. ‘I want to thank you. The information has currency.’

‘What are you going to do with it?’

He said, ‘I am going to spend it very quietly, Eloise.’

‘On what?’

‘Well, let’s see. I have had so much negativity from Mr Ed Miles, that I really don’t want to hear another word from him.’ He smiled and fussily arranged his scarf. ‘And so, Eloise, I am going to talk to our esteemed Prime Minister. I am going to reach out to Jack Dance!’

He turned to go. ‘I want you to know, Eloise, I care about you. I care about your safety. I am protecting you by not giving you a copy of the messages. Ed Miles is a powerful man, and so is Hallwright. I, don’t forget, have nothing to lose. I’m a wanted guy. Mr Obama wants me. Mr Biden wants me. They say I’m the biggest copyright thief in the
world. They call me “Bond villain”. I’m like something out of a movie except, guess what, I’m real! I could be bumped off, why not? It would be cheaper for them.’