“Grant, that’s not exactly what I meant, but thank you. I believe I shall make an appointment to meet with you, professionally, in a few days.” She looked around, conspiratorially and leaned forward across the table. “I have need of some legal help with a very delicate matter.” His eyes widened slightly with interest. She smiled and continued. “But let’s talk no more of it here tonight, instead, let me ensure that your bill is taken care of, and that you are safely escorted to a taxi.” With that, she stood and signaled one of the bus boys who was wiping down tables nearby to come and join her, quickly explaining that Mr Forbes was leaving and might need some help either finding his car or getting a Taxi.
She took care of his bill, which was not terribly high, and finished up for the evening. Margaret knew well about the powers of doing someone a favor and hoped he was in fact sober enough to know that she’d paid for his evening out. She had no intention of paying high legal fees from the outset.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Once the tea was served by Charlotte, the door was closed to Grant’s office and they studied each other for a moment before he spoke. “You mentioned a delicate matter when we spoke. I trust it might be something I can assist you with.”
“Yes, but first I must absolutely insist on your absolute discretion. Do I have your word that what is said in this room goes no further?”
“My dear Miss? Mrs? McKenzie, if I made a habit of discussing my clients’ business with anyone, I’d be soon ruined as a professional in my field. You have my utter guarantee that nothing will leave this room without your express approval, ever.”
“Thank you.” Margaret smiled, and took a long sip of tea, then began. Thirty minutes passed as she unfolded her story; he took notes and silently allowed her the time to cover everything. When she finished, she picked up her tea cup again, and although by now her tea was cold, she enjoyed the liquid running down the back of her throat. The tea calmed her somewhat from the memories raised during her narrative. She looked over at Grant, who was reviewing his notes, circling a few and putting question marks and comments beside some things. He finally looked up and smiled at her.
“So, Mrs McKenzie, you have no idea who this Thomas Morris man really is? Even though you were, sorry, are, married to the man.”
“That’s right. I don’t know who he is, why he keeps popping up in my life, or where he might be now. I do know that every time he turns up, my life is in some form of disarray either immediately before, during, or after his appearance.”
“And, you can be absolutely honest with me, are you saying you had nothing to do with Anthea Cook’s apparent murder?” He held his hands up as she shook her head and started to speak. “Because if you did, we can find all sorts of ways to work around that, and if you did, it would be helpful to know, and… whether you did or not, I need to know if the Auckland police are still interested in you as a suspect.”
“No! Emphatically, totally, 100% No, I did not have anything to do with her disappearance, her apparent murder, or anything of that nature. I am totally innocent; however, I can certainly understand why the police might have thought I did. After all, it’s not so hard to see the level of circumstantial evidence mounted against me.”
“Where do things stand now?” He prompted her further, frowning and continuing to take notes.
“The Police decided that until anything further comes to light, they have to leave this as an open investigation, but they did not try to stop me from leaving New Zealand last month. I’ve heard nothing further from them anyway for nearly five months now.”
Grant closed his notepad, took out his watch and checked the time. “I’m going to need some time for reviewing all that you told me, and then looking into things a little more closely with regards to the Police in New Zealand, and I’d like to look into what Sybil Cook’s rights are regarding your children. Of course, if Nathaniel is the natural father to one of them, he does have some rights which he may confer on his mother, but not of the other child. Now, I would have proposed you join me for lunch, but as it appears you are to become a client of mine,” he raised his eyebrows and she nodded, “that would be most inappropriate - and I’m sure if my wife were to see you, she’d be far from delighted. You’d certainly give most wives a cause for concern where their husbands are involved.” He grinned and held up his hands in mock protest at the look of denial on her face. “Now, now, I am sure you know full well how beautiful and engaging you are Mrs McKenzie.” He stood up and held out a hand to her. He lightly shook it as he walked her to the door. They agreed that she would return the following week. “Oh, and my sincere thanks indeed for taking care of my account last week. Shall we simply agree that I shall foot this bill today and we’re square?”
Margaret nodded her agreement and left.
CHAPTER NINE
Gregory left the club and wandered down to the docks. When he left Solange behind some evenings, like tonight, he found he enjoyed dressing as a regular man and adopted a more conservative air about himself that deflected interest from anyone he met, just as much as he did the opposite as Solange. As Solange, he craved the attention and saw it almost as a challenge to go out and get noticed. This also led to his ability to completely become the other character he felt he was, and therefore become almost invisible. Very few people actually knew he was both. Tim, Brian of course, and several friends, but certainly none of his Maltese Maids. They only knew him as Gregory, but even then, had no idea of his full name. He also always met his girls in the low light of the docks at night, so if pressed, they’d find it hard to describe him.
This system had worked well now for a number of years. He had met Kaiden and Alyssia while helping to liberate Malta at the end of the war. They had become firm friends and loved to hear his stories of Australia. Having endured relentless bombing raids since 1942, they were war weary, bitter about the idea of staying in their homeland, and when the idea to relocate to Australia was suggested they decided to do so without a moment’s hesitation. By the end of 1946 they had arrived in Sydney and started working as gardener and housekeeper. for a wealthy family in Sydney’s Double Bay. One day, when Kaiden was walking through the city, he had the chance to look up the address Gregory had given him several years earlier and was able to leave a message about their location. Gregory responded within days, and soon the three were reunited for more conversation about the war, Malta, and coming to Australia.
When it came time to pay for Alyssia to have surgery for a wound that had healed badly in the war due to non-treatment, they turned to Gregory and asked for his advice and any assistance he could give them to ensure this was done, and paid for out of their meagre savings. As it turned out, their meagre savings were barely enough for a deposit, and they knew that without the surgery, Alyssia would not be able to continue working for much longer. Gregory agreed to help cover their costs in return for some light fingering of anything that might be saleable and not missed by their employers. And, so started a beautiful six year sideline for both of them. As they grew confident, they were able to recruit a handful of other maids and housekeepers who were also impoverished by their immigration status - in some cases they were refugees who’d arrived with barely a change of clothes to their names. This small network was careful, well managed, and all had one thing in common - a desire to rebuild parts of their lives they’d left behind in Malta.
The well thought out operation was a credit to Gregory but, as his time in the army had trained him to do, intelligence gathering and strategy was something that came naturally to him too. He knew that it was impossible to meet up only with Kaiden or Alyssia, so several of the others were trusted to meet with him and hand over what had been taken and collect the payment for the previous drop. Tonight, the meeting place was by the third shed, behind the large warehouse on the front of the foreman’s yard. Gregory waited, silently, keeping his sharp ears and eyes alert for any sound. He was a few minutes early, but was a patient man. He turned and observed a young woman coming towa
rds him, he’d met her once before he thought, but names were not used at any time.
Gregory spoke first. “Għandi nsib kelb tiegħi. I must find my dog.”
To which she replied: “X'tip ta 'kelb? What kind of dog?”
He then answered: “Żebgħa waħda bajda. A small white one.”
Her reply was: “Nista 'ngħinlek is-sibt. I can help you sir.”
Gregory was then able to take the bag she held out to him, and handed her a sealed envelope. She disappeared into the night quickly and quietly, and he felt the weight of the bag, before slinging it calmly over his shoulder and walking quietly home. As Gregory, people left him alone, and he was letting himself into the back room behind his store and unpacking the bag within 30 minutes of the meeting. The contents included things like a silver powder bowl, with a crystal base, several pieces of jewelry, and a first edition of a Mark Twain book, in good condition. The jewelry was of average standard, a few good stones, some silver, and gold, obviously collected over a period of time, and nothing particularly expensive enough to cause a police investigation. He would sit on the book for a while, but the rest could be passed on almost immediately, and add up to maybe a hundred dollars profit for him to share with Kaiden and Alyssia, who in turn would contribute a small fee to their team.
He hid the bag and wandered upstairs to his small set of rooms, shedding his clothes as he did so. Under his pants was a pair of the finest lace French knickers and a matching camisole, which he left on as he flopped onto his bed. Lighting a cigarette for the first time since before leaving - Gregory didn’t smoke, but Solange did - he smoked it slowly, looking up at the ceiling and wondering how he felt. It was something he did regularly, tuned in to his inner self and did a quick check to see if both he and she were ok. He found that tonight he was mostly good. He hoped that meant a decent night’s sleep ahead.
It had been a few weeks since the dreams, and he knew that they’d be back, but for now he was going to just enjoy the end of the day and the cigarette he was smoking, and worry about everything else tomorrow.
CHAPTER TEN
Nathaniel had grown used to being unhappy. Misery had accompanied him so far through most of his life. Oh sure, there had been plenty of highlights, and perhaps, many would argue, that he lived a charmed life. Indeed, by many people’s standards he would agree. But while his needs were well taken care of as the son of a wealthy merchant, he worked hard and for the most part enjoyed his daily life. But when it came to freedom to be who he wanted to be and who he wanted to be with, he was bound in a vice that he knew he was too weak to break out from.
His mother was that vice. From the moment of his birth she had ruled his life with a firmness that perhaps the royal families in Europe might respect. Her expectations were clear, and no room for reason or personal wants would sway her on anything. Once her mind was made up, he was her puppet, and to a lesser extent, so was his father John.
On the subject of career path, he was to follow his father into John’s father’s business. It was to become a wonderful success, as her own father’s money was staked into the small store as part of her dowry, and John was under no illusion then or any time since that his responsibility as Sybil’s husband was to grow that dowry 10-fold or more.
When it came to Nathaniel’s desire to shorten his name to Nate, he was made aware of the responsibility of carrying her grandfather’s name; and that he’d jolly well better live up to it.
The idea of marriage had certainly never crossed his mind until his mother told him he’d be marrying Anthea Bridgestone in the following summer. She even picked out the ring he was required to propose with.
By the time that proposal came around, he was actually hopelessly in love with Margaret McKenzie, a singer and all-round beautiful woman he’d met in Auckland, seduced, and helped to create as a star attraction at Mike’s Place - a popular downtown cabaret club.
Unfortunately, no sooner had he ensured her financial stability and future success than he was forced to end their relationship, in order to marry Anthea, the wealthy but spoiled and simple daughter of his mother’s best friend’s sister.
He looked up at the man behind the bar, whose name he thought was Roy, or Rob, maybe... who cared… so long as he kept pouring the drinks, he didn’t care what they all called him. “Roy, or whatever your name is, I’m ok for a top up, this time fill the glass, would you? And never mind the bloody ice this time.”
Rod stepped over and popped the cork on the reserve bottle of Glenfiddich and deftly swapped the glass Nathaniel Cook had been drinking from, for a smaller one, filling it to just over half. The man was too drunk to notice, good. This was the third night this week he’d been in, and each night was the same. The man refused to eat, only to drink the best whiskey in the house, polished off the best part of a bottle each night then had to be carried out back to sleep it off until morning. To his credit, he was a quiet drunk, and kept it down well too, just sloppy and talkative. Rod knew him mostly by reputation. His company was located in the same block, and this place was the only one that served the higher quality drinks that Cook liked. Another bar was close by, but noisy, and mostly served the workers their six o’clock rounds before they went off home to dinner. This kind of place had different hours, different rules really, and the patrons knew that discretion was also what they were paying for with every drop.
“D’you know me Rob?” Nathaniel was sipping his drink slowly, savoring each mouthful, tasting and appreciating it. He clearly was not drunk yet then. Rod took his time to answer.
“You’re the owner of the department store, Cookson’s, but I don’t believe we’ve met before this week Sir, no.”
“That’s right, Robbie, I’m that man indeed.” He drank silently for a couple of minutes, cradling his glass, and sometimes staring into it. When he finally spoke, he didn’t seem to care if Rod was still there, he just started talking; for the most part making sense, but occasionally losing his train of thought. He’d take a sip of his whiskey and ponder for a moment before continuing.
“I’m that lucky bastard who was born with a destiny already decided and plenty of money to play with. That’s what most people think of me. My wife thought that too. She’s dead you know. Someone threw her off a clifftop up in Auckland. What the hell was she doing up there? Very strange. You’d think I’d be delighted she’s gone, she was such a bore. How can anyone love someone who is so terribly boring? Nothing between her ears, and well God only knows what might have been between her bloody legs. She certainly wasn’t opening them for me. Maybe a few times, but God even that was a dreadful bore. No, I’m certainly not the grieving widower. But then again, that’s not to say I’m not grieving, aye.” His voice had grown quiet and sadness surrounded him like a cloud. Rod noticed the additional slump of his shoulders and the slight break in his voice.
Looking at the man, Rod was able to see someone close to breaking and wondered what might be part of his story. He decided to top Nathaniel’s glass up a little and hoped it might provoke some more talk. He was well rewarded.
“Her name is Margaret. Marrgarrett! With the most beautiful hair you’ve ever seen… falls all the way to her waist, in rich red waves. We have been together since she was seventeen years old. I should have married her instead of that bloody ice queen my mother picked out. My mother! Now there’s a woman who would break any man’s balls… I wonder if my father even knows how to get hard anymore. And now, d’you know what the bitch did? You’ll never guess, so should just tell you…” As Nathaniel started to feel the effects of the whiskey, he lowered his voice, and stared into space as he remembered the enormous changes of the past few months of his life… then quietly and very softly spoke again. So softly, with a slur that meant what he said was almost indistinguishable. But Rod would swear he caught the line. “She stole our children.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Nathaniel awoke the next morning, crumpled suit, dry mouth, and banging head, he looked around the room, with faded
curtains drawn together but still not quite meeting in the middle allowing the gloomy Wellington day to seep through unfiltered. He lay quietly for a few moments, fighting the urge to empty his bladder where he lay, but knowing in reality he had no desire to ever actually cross that line.
“Come on Nate, another day…” he muttered quietly to himself.
The room they seemed to throw him in after too many drinks to get home was less than inviting and the bed was narrow, hard and creaked when he moved. And yet he felt strangely at peace there. No one knew he was here, except the bartender, which meant he didn’t have to behave any special way until he exited the room. But the growing ache in his groin was becoming much harder to ignore and he really didn’t want to piss in his pants. So, he slowly swung his feet off the bed and onto the floor, wincing at the additional pressure the movement placed on both his bladder and his headache, and made his way out to the bathroom down the hallway.
He had time to go home, wash and change into a fresh suit before making his way to the offices and warehouse of Cookson’s Department Store. The retail store itself was downtown; his father had preferred to keep the offices for the company with the warehouse, and then visit the store unexpectedly at any time in order to keep everyone on their toes with not knowing when he might drop in and do a random inspection of various departments. Nathaniel on the other hand, actually disliked the stores and the people who managed them, and so did his best to avoid any visits at all; something his father disapproved of, but seemed to understand enough to not say anything to his mother about it.
Arriving at his office, waving a scant good morning to Shirley, he went to his desk, sat down and looked at the pile of papers Shirley had stacked neatly for him to go through. He got stuck into to the work at hand for a couple of hours, before deciding to take a walk through the warehouse for a change of pace.
Rhythm and Rhyme Page 4
