Death on Demand

by Paul Thomas

  “We were talking about Corvine.”

  “So we were. I haven’t heard anything to suggest he was ratted out, if that’s where you’re coming from. Word on the street was he got careless with his cellphone – used it to ring the wrong people then left it lying around for someone to have a nosey through call history.”

  “That doesn’t sound very likely,” said Ihaka.

  Yallop looked away, concentrating on his cigarette. “You asked, I told you what I heard. It’s a matter of complete fucking indifference to me whether you believe it or not. How’s he doing, by the way?”

  It came out smoothly, a casual enquiry about a mutual acquaintance. “I wouldn’t know,” said Ihaka, a reasonably accomplished liar himself. “Haven’t seen him for years. But I’m touched by your concern.”

  “Actually, I couldn’t give a shit,” said Yallop with a crooked grin. “I just have a vague professional curiosity. How many new holes did they give him?”

  “Well, one’s too many, isn’t it.”

  “I seem to remember it was quite a few too many. But, hey, he lived to tell the tale.”

  “Which apparently is more than you can say for Jerry Spragg.”

  “Eh? He’s still around.”

  “But not telling too many tales, I hear.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean. Yeah, it seems the post-prison career as an after-dinner speaker isn’t a goer.”

  “What happened there?”

  Yallop sat up straighter, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Let’s see, you asked me about a hitter and your boy Corvine, and now you want to know about Tom the Turnip or whatever the fuck Spragg answers to these days. You running a tab here, Sergeant?”

  “I’d say I’m still in credit,” said Ihaka with a faint smile. “This could make us all square.”

  “I’ll hold you to that. I thought Spragg would be okay inside because he had protection, but I guess when you’re used to being the big dog, it’s hard to get your head around the concept of vulnerability. I heard he made two mistakes: he treated people like shit and he didn’t listen to his minders. First rule of maximum, Sergeant: the price of staying in one piece is eternal vigilance.”

  “I thought it was: if you drop the soap in the shower, let someone else pick it up.”

  “No, mate, you don’t get to choose. Some guys drop the soap, some guys have to bend over and pick it up. Pure social Darwinism.”

  “So who dealt to him?”

  Yallop stood up, stubbing out his cigarette. “Random hard-arses. It was standard recreational violence, so what fucking difference does it make? I think we’re done here.”

  Back inside Yallop slipped into his seat and jabbed his laptop into life. “Have to say, Sergeant, that’s a lot of loose ends.”

  “I’ve got a bit of catching up to do.”

  “You around for a while?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Let’s not do this again. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

  “That works both ways.”

  Yallop snickered. “You sure about that? You’ve been gone a while, digger. Your reputation ain’t what it used to be.”

  Ihaka gave him a long, unfriendly stare. “Watch this space.”

  Ihaka’s house wasn’t immaculate, but it was a lot cleaner and tidier than when he’d arrived there unannounced that morning to give his nephew and cousins a life lesson: all good things must come to an end. It was a short visit and an even shorter conversation, culminating with his promise that if the place wasn’t spick and span when he returned he’d hunt them down and confiscate their scrotums. After Uncle Tito had got back in his car and driven off, the boys had a bit of a laugh about that. Then they got down to work.

  Ihaka’s sister and one of his aunts had left messages on the answerphone, complaining about the suddenness of the eviction. He couldn’t be bothered ringing them back to point out that lack of notice was the downside of a peppercorn rent.

  He made a pile of sandwiches from the rotisserie chicken and salad ingredients he’d picked up at the supermarket and ate supper on the veranda. He wasn’t really sure what he felt about the turn of events. On the one hand it was nice to be back in his own home; on the other he’d grown quite attached to the rented cottage on a country lane that snaked through farmland between State Highway 2 and the edge of the Tararua Forest. He was a born and bred Aucklander, in tune with the erratic rhythm of the city, unfazed by its mass and sprawl. He enjoyed the buzz of striving, restless humanity. And unsentimental and solitary though he was, the blue lure of the harbour or the diamond-studded silhouette of the city at night still gave him a sense of belonging.

  But in Auckland he was always a cop, and therefore always on a war footing. In Wairarapa he left the job behind when he turned off State Highway 2. Being a loner in the city seemed to cause others aggravation: they called him bloody-minded, told him he had an attitude problem, interpreted solitariness as alienation, if not hostility. Country folk respected solitude. They understood the oppressiveness of other people.

  He would enjoy working with McGrail again and was tickled by the prospect of enraging Charlton and Firkitt, but there was every chance the investigation would be a dead-end street, and a short one at that. Lilywhite had incriminated himself at length but hadn’t provided a lead to the killer. There was just the coincidence of the approach coming straight after the boys’ weekend. No doubt his three mates would trumpet their innocence and outrage, then take cover behind QCs. After that, all he and Beth Greendale could do was trawl through their pasts looking for a hint that they might know or know of a killer.

  Yallop was right: professional hitmen didn’t do this sort of stuff. Apart from anything else, if people like Lilywhite and his friends went looking for a professional hitter, they’d leave a trail a pimple-arsed thicko straight out of Police College could follow. He didn’t have a view one way or the other on the rest of what he’d got from Yallop, not that it amounted to much. If, in Yallop’s complicated calculations, he could see a potential benefit to himself somewhere down the line, he might tell the truth. If not, he’d recycle the conventional wisdom, or give you a bum steer just for the hell of it. That exercise was more about poking a stick into a hole and seeing what, if anything, crawled out.

  Then there were those two cases Lilywhite had picked out. What made him think the TV guy and the old girl were contract hits? Had guilt and torment driven him around the bend so that every time he checked the death notices, he saw sinister happenings, men like him turning their twisted fantasies into reality by hiring an invisible killer who could somehow anticipate when daydreams would harden into murderous intent?

  Lilywhite didn’t seem lost in a maze of conspiracy where there was no such thing as an accident or random, opportunistic crime. On the other hand, all he’d provided was a few newspaper clippings. Maybe he knew more than he’d let on. He’d described himself as obsessive, quite the amateur sleuth: it wasn’t out of the question that he’d looked so hard, he’d seen something no one else noticed. Maybe he’d wanted to say more, but had run out of steam. By the end of their session he’d looked incapable of blowing out a match.

  Ihaka cursed himself for not having pressed Lilywhite on the other deaths. He’d been unprofessional on two counts, letting himself feel some sympathy for a man who’d cold-bloodedly gone about the elimination of his wife, and giving in to the urge to get the hell out of there. So it was a lot of grief and guilt for one day? Tough shit: that was the job, pal. He used to be renowned for his ability to plough through that stuff, to function in the presence of death and heartbreak when more sensitive officers had to duck outside to throw up or shed tears. But as Yallop had enjoyed reminding him, it was a while since anyone had clapped eyes on that Tito Ihaka.

  There was an ambulance outside Lilywhite’s house and the front door was open. Ihaka walked quickly down the corridor towards the sound of anguish.

  The paramedics were young, no more than twenty-five. One was over by the lo
ng leather couch setting up a mobile stretcher. The other, a woman, was comforting Sandy, who glanced up, her face a blur of misery. Ihaka saw a flash of recognition and anger in her eyes, then another wave of grief rolled in and she dropped her head back onto the paramedic’s shoulder. Ihaka had heard those shuddering sobs many times. He didn’t need to look at Lilywhite to know he was dead.

  He looked anyway. Lilywhite lay on his back, his hands dug into the cashmere blanket. His head was tilted back and his eyes and mouth were wide open, like a backstroker on the last length. He looked like the oldest man on earth.

  Ihaka showed the male paramedic his ID, herding him out through the open French doors onto the bowling green lawn. “What happened?”

  The paramedic was tall and slim with a dark fringe he had to keep brushing out of his eyes and a five o’clock shadow that had fallen early. He stared at Ihaka through guileless eyes. “He seemed okay, so she nipped out to the supermarket. When she got back, he was gone.”

  “I saw him yesterday,” said Ihaka. “He seemed pretty good considering. He thought he had weeks left.”

  “It’s not an exact science.”

  “So this is within what you’d call the normal time frame?”

  The paramedic shrugged. “Usually it’s more a steady decline. I would’ve expected him to pass away in a hospice.”

  “Maybe he decided to hurry it up?”

  The clear eyes widened. “That hadn’t occurred to me. Someone who’s terminally ill, you don’t tend to think about the whys and wherefores.”

  “Do you know his specialist?”

  “I’ve got the name in there somewhere.”

  “Do me a favour, give him a ring and get his take on it. And let’s leave Lilywhite where he is for now.”

  The paramedic gulped. He was used to death being low-key and uncomplicated. Call-outs to the living were much more fraught. “You think there’s something not quite right here?”

  “I’m just saying, under the circumstances…”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Has it crossed your mind to wonder why I’m here?” It obviously hadn’t, but now he was making up for it. “Don’t say anything to the daughter, okay? Not a fucking word.” The paramedic gulped again, nodding rapidly. “What’s happening with her?”

  “Some friends are coming over.”

  “Get them to take her to their place,” said Ihaka. “Don’t take no for an answer.”

  He rang McGrail, who was in a meeting. Ihaka told him to get out of it. He heard McGrail’s muffled apology and the click-clack of his leather soles on a wooden floor.

  “Well?”

  “Lilywhite’s dead.”

  “That’s somewhat earlier than expected?”

  “Yep.”

  “But hardly unexpected?”

  “His daughter came back from a quick trip to the supermarket to find him dead. She’d left the place wide open. And for what it’s worth, this time yesterday he didn’t seem like a man who was going to croak inside twenty-four hours.”

  There was a long pause. “I take it you’re there now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? Because you thought he had more to say?”

  “Maybe.” The paramedic was hovering. “Hang on.”

  “I got hold of the specialist,” said the paramedic. “He would’ve expected Mr Lilywhite to have stayed pretty much the same for a few weeks, then to decline significantly, plateau for a week or so, then go quite quickly. But he did stress that…”

  “It’s not an exact science. Got it. Thanks, mate.” The paramedic went back inside. Ihaka asked McGrail, “You hear that?”

  “I did.”

  “We should get a crime scene team out here.”

  “I suppose that would be prudent.”

  “What should I tell them?”

  “About your involvement?” McGrail thought about it for a few seconds. “Well, if I was you, I’d tell them you had nothing to do with it.”

  6

  As agreed, Ihaka arrived early to receive his instructions: don’t provoke, don’t react, leave the talking to McGrail.

  “So why do I have to be here?” he grumbled. “Talk about a spare prick at a wedding.”

  “What a revolting expression,” said McGrail.

  McGrail put his nose in a thick draft report. A few minutes went by in frosty silence, broken only by McGrail’s long-suffering exhalations as he corrected the author’s grammar. Ihaka wondered why McGrail had taken exception to that particular remark given the torrent of filth he’d chosen to ignore in the past. The only explanation which came to mind was that he was a bit on edge over the imminent meeting with Detective Inspector Tony Charlton and Detective Sergeant Ron Firkitt.

  They were punctual, and as wary as forest animals. Charlton looked exactly as Ihaka remembered, only with a deeper suntan, but time had landed a few hammer-blows on Firkitt’s flushed, lumpy face. He reminded Ihaka of the limping, putty-nosed, sponge-eared ex-players you see in rugby clubs, famous brutes in their time, snarling into their beer about coloured boots and hair gel and how the game’s gone soft.

  Ihaka gave them a mock salute. “Inspector,” he said affably. “Ron. Jesus, mate, what’s your secret? You don’t look a day over seventy-five.”

  High on Firkitt’s shaven scalp a thick vein squirmed alarmingly. He took a deep breath through his nose, fixing Ihaka with a lizard stare.

  “Nothing’s changed, eh, Sergeant?” said Charlton, herding Firkitt to the far end of the boardroom table.

  Ihaka kept smiling. “You tell me.”

  McGrail sat at the head of the table. “I don’t want to have to say this twice,” he said. “We’re dealing with at least one murder. The preliminary report on Lilywhite indicates he was asphyxiated, which makes two. Assuming we’re dealing with a professional killer, there’s likely to be more. It should go without saying that this is not a situation in which senior police officers should be squabbling like spoilt children.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” said Charlton, “that’s easy for you to say. You weren’t the one who was assaulted and urinated on.”

  Ihaka gave Firkitt a deadpan wink.

  “I don’t need a history lesson, thank you, Inspector,” said McGrail crisply. “The incident happened five years ago and was dealt with at the time. You obtained the outcome you sought, once it was pointed out to you that neither party would’ve fared well under a more formal and transparent process. Our duty now is to put it behind us and move on.”

  “That would be a lot easier,” said Charlton, “if there was some evidence of contrition in the form of an apology.”

  “I don’t want a fucking apology,” said Firkitt, his voice rumbling like an idling hot rod. “Look at him. He’s not sorry so even if he said so, it wouldn’t mean a bloody thing.”

  “Well, what do you propose, gentlemen?” said McGrail. “That we put this investigation on hold until you resolve your differences?”

  “No need for that,” said Charlton. “Once Ihaka has briefed the investigating team, he can go back to Wairarapa, where I’m sure he’s sorely missed.”

  McGrail leaned back in his chair, head cocked. “Really? So you’re planning to dispense with the services of the only person in the organization who was right about this case all along?”

  Charlton shrugged. “Point one, Sergeant Ihaka’s no longer part of the organization. Point two, if Lilywhite was still alive I could see an argument for Ihaka’s continued involvement, but he’s not, so I can’t. To all intents and purposes he’s a witness in this case, so we’ll treat him like any other witness – we’ll take his statement and let him go home. Frankly, sir, the implication that we can’t handle this without Ihaka is a bit of an insult to the rest of us.”

  “Oh, I think you’re being a little thin-skinned there, Inspector,” said McGrail, going back to his desk. “I thought Sergeant Ihaka’s knowledge and insight would be useful, but clearly you have every confidence that your team can bring this
case to a swift and satisfactory outcome. I look forward to your confidence being vindicated.”

  He put on his reading glasses and opened a folder. The meeting was over.

  Charlton stood up, returning the mocking smile he’d had from Ihaka earlier. “Travel safely.”

  He left the room. Ihaka looked at Firkitt, who jerked his head towards the door.

  Ihaka followed him out, wondering if he was crazy enough to start something right outside McGrail’s office. They faced each other in the corridor. Firkitt’s eyes were hooded and his arms hung loosely by his sides. He’d love to, thought Ihaka, he really would.

  Firkitt read his mind. “Don’t piss your pants, shithead – I’m not that dumb and you’re not worth it. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to get you one of these days, because I fucking well will. Second door on the right, my DC’s waiting to take your statement. Then you can fuck off back to your sheep-shaggers and battered babies.”

  “You don’t want to hear it first-hand?”

  Firkitt was already walking away. He looked over his shoulder, his face twitching. “You wouldn’t want me in there,” he said. “You wouldn’t come out in one piece.”

  As Ihaka was giving his statement, he got a text from McGrail’s secretary: ‘Pls c ADC wen yr dun.’

  McGrail looked up, peeling off his spectacles when his secretary brought Ihaka in.

  “Well, that went well,” said Ihaka, as the door closed behind him. “Did you really think Charlton would welcome me with open arms?”

  “I didn’t think for one minute he’d welcome you,” said McGrail. “I thought he might tolerate you, but it seems the faithful Firkitt has the power of veto where you’re concerned. Whoever said time heals all wounds – I believe it was Chaucer – obviously never suffered the psychological scarring that accompanies being laid out in a latrine. But it’s Charlton’s baby now, and seeing he’s claimed it, he’s obliged to give it high priority. And to get it right.”

  “Which was really the whole point of the exercise?”